I Have No Idea How the Rhinoceros Got There
by Riverdancekat09
Summary: ...but it's still easier to explain than the elf. An autumn storm delivers an unexpected intruder, and my comfortable rhythm and routine is altered forever. Now rated 'M'.
1. By the pricking of my thumbs

**AN:** It's official: my muse is Procrastination. This is what happens when real life, a vicious cold, and creativity all conspire against you. Bioware owns what Bioware owns-y'all know the drill.

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><p>Rows upon rows of raw data. <em>Fake <em>data, I might add—this is just a practice exercise. I've stopped staring at the tiny clock in the right-hand corner of my laptop screen; watching the precious seconds and minutes tick later and later into valuable sleeping time just depresses me. As I try to make sense of the numbers and descriptions in the cells—_fake _numbers and descriptions—as I try to organize them into some semblance of coherence, only one thought circles in my tired brain.

_Indiana Jones is a damn filthy liar._

I'm not running for my life through a steaming jungle. I'm not chasing a priceless artifact. I don't have a lady sidekick (though if I had to choose, I'd go with Marian). And I'm _definitely _not trying to rescue my father from ruthless Nazis. No. I'm staring at data from a fake faunal assemblage, cramming it into an Excel file, and writing a report to be turned in for a grade, and my only companions in this trial of delightful pointlessness are my dog and three cats.

A rushing breeze fills the white curtains as it whispers through the complex's courtyard. There is a storm coming, and for a half-second I inhale and hope the promise of rain isn't just another vicious tease the weatherman perpetrates just to torture the entire region. Scooter's floppy black ears perk up; her wet nose twitches intently as she, too, picks up the storm's scent. Virgil, Binx, and Toaster all abandon their postures of feline indifference and turn their attention to the open window. Watching. Waiting.

At last, our vigil is rewarded. It begins slowly; the barest tap-tap-tap of single drops on dry concrete. Swiftly, though, the pace picks up, and soon the courtyard is filled with the hiss of rain forming puddles on the dry, parched ground. I can't stop the broad grin spreading across my face as I listen with half-an-ear. The data doesn't look so awful now, may even make sense a little.

Thunder rumbles as the storm intensifies. Scooter whimpers anxiously and abandons her blanket on the couch to curl up at my feet. The cats scamper from their respective perches and slink into the empty bedroom, seeking refuge from an autumn storm that is swiftly becoming a gale. I do my best to keep my breathing even as lightning and thunder crack through the damp air. I am alone—Charlie is gone for the weekend on a company retreat. But I'm an adult, damn it—though that doesn't stop me from digging my cell phone out of my pocket and putting it within close reach. For the moment, I resist calling him just for the comfort of his voice. We are all on edge.

The storm continues to roar furiously outside; the curtains look like ghosts as they flap in the forceful wind whipping across the tiny porch. I dart outside to pull the cushion off the cheap IKEA patio chair—it's already soaked but I drape it over the curtain rod in the bathroom anyway. I nearly trip on Scooter as I return to my chair at the kitchen table. The data is jumbled again; I shiver and pull my sweater closer around my shoulders.

Everything seems to happen all at once: lightning crackles bright blue through the pitch-black night; the lights in my apartment wink out; and I shriek in alarm as Scooter begins to bark maddeningly. My hands are shaking, and it takes me a moment to realize I can still see. It isn't much, but the laptop screen gives me enough light to fumble for candles and an old Bic lighter leftover from before Charlie quit smoking. I slam the window shut, and the curtains still themselves instantly. Thunder rattles the flimsy glass in their panes, and lightning continues to flash until it feels as though it is reaching inside my meager sanctuary.

I lose it. Scooter follows me instinctively into the bathroom, doesn't even whimper a protest as I unceremoniously pick her up and dump her into the bathtub and pull the wet patio cushion over us. I hold her shivering bulk close and squeeze my eyes shut against the primal terror; I babble nonsensical prayers into her black-and blue fur and it takes me a moment to realize I'm sobbing.

I don't know how long we lie there, cowering in the blackness. But the lights come back on, and I'm acutely aware of the wet cushion leaking its sorry wetness into my clothes and leeching the warmth from my skin. I let Scooter go, and she jumps daintily from the bathtub. She shakes vigorously and gives me a look that says she has no idea what we were hiding from. I grin sheepishly at her (what? You never treat your pets like they're people?) and pull the bathroom door open.

It only takes an instant for me to realize we are not alone.

A man is stretched out awkwardly across the length of my couch. Scooter's cheerful trot grinds to a halt as she takes stock of the stranger's scent, and she growls a low warning. Without getting too close, I conduct my own investigation. His stark-white hair is a shock against the faded navy chenille fabric (a relic of my parents' first apartment together). I feel my eyes go wide in absolute shock as I struggle to reconcile the reality of spiked armor and silver-blue markings against all I know to be possible and impossible. The coffee mugs and stacks of paper on the table rattle ominously as I back into it, bruising the small of my back. He groans and stirs, picks his head up from the worn couch cushion. He bolts upright in obvious alarm, reaching for a sword that isn't there. He swivels his head around, taking stock of my cramped living room. Finally, his gaze settles on me, and I feel as though I'm speared to the spot.

My life just got a lot more complicated.


	2. Something wicked this way comes

I cling to the hope that he is merely a man, dressed in costume, dedicated to a role. Scooter shivers at my side, pressed against my leg as though she could somehow disappear into it. I smile in my nervousness, paralyzed by the jet-green scowl. "Hi," I stammer.

All pretty illusions and fragile hopes of costumes perish as my voice seems to trigger something in him. The silent stalemate snaps, and somewhere between one second and the next I am bent backwards over the table. My entire life glows blue; Scooter _shrieks_ as I've never heard before and scrambles to get away. The tips of his gauntlets prick my skin and I can feel the tickle of blood moving slowly down my neck, but I do not dare move. Not while he has me by the throat.

He speaks, and his voice is like chocolate melting into coffee poured into red wine and I'm so busy _melting _into it that I don't register his words until he shakes me insistently. I choke and try to swallow past the vice-like grip. Tears prick hotly at the corners of my eyes, and I remember that he is beautiful and dangerous, and I'm _frightened_, more frightened than I was of the storm, more frightened than I've ever been in my life. "Please," I rasp as black spots dance like fairies in my field of vision. "Please let go."

"_What have you done to me?_" he repeats. He shakes me by the throat again; I can feel his fingers sink through the skin and close around my larynx. It is the most surreal feeling in the world, and it fills me with an instinctive panic. I try to cry out, but all I can manage is a weak, gasping sob. I scrabble at the gauntlet, only to have my hands pass through almost-empty air. The table digs into my spine as I try to kick out. Mine is the desperate struggle of a trapped animal. Of its own volition my hand closes around one of the half-empty coffee mugs (_how long has THAT been there? Gross_) and I dash the sludgy contents into his face.

He releases me and staggers backwards, wiping coffee from his eyes. It is time enough to grab a chair and hold it aloft between us—a flimsy, pathetic shield, but it will serve. I hope. My throat feels bruised, and I'm having trouble breathing. I greedily gulp air in. We are back in stasis, each trying to reconcile the presence of the other.

Scooter barks from the doorway to my bedroom. I try to keep the chair between myself and him as I struggle to quiet her. He's watching warily; perhaps he's afraid I'll throw more coffee at him. Perhaps he just doesn't like dogs. At last, Scooter is quiet, save for the occasional whimper. I return my attention to my visitor, who hasn't taken his eyes off me this entire time. Coffee is still dripping into his eyes from the tendrils of fine white hair. And my throat still hurts, but I take the high road and hold out a paper towel.

"Sorry about that," I apologize inanely. "The bathroom's just there, if you'd like to wash up."

He glares incredulously at me, and looks at the paper towel as though it might transform into a venomous snake at any moment. "What is this place?" he demands harshly. "How have you brought me here?"

I fervently wish for the aluminum bat beside the bed—it's lighter than the chair. But I don't dare leave his sight to retrieve it. "We both have questions," I dodge, in as calm a tone as I can muster. "I'm going to make a pot of tea, we're both going to calm down, and we'll talk like adults. But," I add, since it seems important to lay down some ground rules, "harm my dog, or my cats, and I _will _kill you."

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>So much for a one-shot. I'm still working on my other project; this one has just temporarily hijacked me. Bioware owns the character I have yet to name but you all know who I'm talking about. :p


	3. Mad Hatter's Tea Party

He looks so awkward among the labyrinth of books and papers that it's hard not to feel sorry for him, just a little. I clamp down on the primal fear he instills in me and turn my back to him. My spine is ramrod straight; _I am not afraid of him_, I try to tell myself as I put water in the kettle and turn the stovetop as high as it will go. Mechanically I pull the teapot—tea leaves—infuser out of the cupboard, prepare them for the hot water. I feel his gaze, sharp as needles, on the nape of my neck, and have to resist the urge to hunch my shoulders. _I am not afraid of him._

A whisper of sound, and suddenly he is in the kitchen with me. I jump, and the container of tea leaves tips its contents onto the countertop (_damn, the last of the good Teavana stuff_). My hands shake as I scoop the mess into the sink. He is not as tall as I thought he would be, though that still puts him a few inches above my own height. The galley-style kitchen closes in, and I feel as though his gauntleted hand is closed around my neck again. The air drags in and out of my lungs; he is so _close _and though he is short and lithe it feels like he takes up the entire _world _with his sheer presence. But it's on me to remain calm—I have my animals to think about and though it may seem a small thing to some, it is enough to light a spark of defiance within me. _Damned_ if I will let him shake me. "Yes?" I ask, and there is a haughtiness to my tone that makes part of me cringe at its foolishness. I do not look at him. If I look at him I will remember to be afraid of him. _I am not afraid of him_.

"I am sorry," he answers quietly, "for hurting you."

He has my attention now. I snap my eyes to his face: his gaze is on the bruised skin of my throat, the dark red dots where his gauntlets pierced the skin. They have already scabbed over; if I remember to leave them alone they will heal in a matter of days. He offers peace, and I find I no longer have to pretend to not be afraid of him. I offer him a wary smile in return. "I'm sorry I threw old coffee in your face—that can't have been pleasant."

Something like humor glimmers behind the gravity of his expression. "It was not," he concedes. He looks as though he might say more, but the business-like whistle of the kettle interrupts him. I pull it off the stove, pour the boiling water over the loose leaves, and set the timer on my microwave. All this, he watches with a rapt, almost fearful curiosity; my heart goes out to him as I try to imagine how frightening and strange my modern kitchen must be to him.

"Let's start with the easy stuff," I propose. "Names. Mine's Erin."

"And I am Fenris."

Sanity screams in violent, bloody protest as another nail is driven into its coffin. I clench my hands into fists to keep them from trembling as the microwave timer goes off, as I pull the soggy tea leaves out of the pot and squeeze honey into the dark amber liquid. I knew his name. I _knew _it was _him_. But Christ—to actually _hear _him _say _it—he's real, he's really standing in my kitchen, and we're really having a conversation. "Okay," I manage shakily. "Okay. Next question?"

He frowns as he watches me pour tea into two chipped mugs. The crease in his brow deepens as I lead him out of the kitchen and back onto my hand-me-down sofa. Steam curls toward the ceiling; the clock on the wall ticks into the pregnant silence. "Where _am _I?" he whispers.

It is a lonely, lost question, one I don't know how to answer, except sarcastically. "At the moment you're in my living room." I quail under his exasperated glare. "Sorry," I mutter into my tea. "Texas. You're in Texas."

He nods like my answer means something to him. Then he seems to catch himself, and frowns again. "Tex-uhs?" he repeats (_and my accent sounds REALLY WEIRD combined with his_).

"I can show you on a map, if you like."

He nods gratefully. I pull my laptop toward me and pull up Google. With a few quick strokes across the keyboard, I have a Texas map on the screen. He's watching my hands, watching the screen, and he is wide-eyed with fear and _fascination_ and I belatedly realize my mistake. "It's okay," I hasten to reassure him. "It's just—it's like a library," (_HOW do you explain the fucking INTERNET?_) "It can't hurt you."

"It's glowing."

"It's just light, Fenris." (W_here is Charlie when I need him? HE could explain plasma and LCD screens and the black magic that goes into making laptops._)

He stares uncomprehendingly at the boundaries and names that mean nothing to him. I wonder if he can even read the names of the cities. "We're here," I offer, and point to a little dot somewhere south of Austin. "Mexico is this way"—I trace I-35 southward—"and my mother lives farther north, in Dallas."

More thoughtful silence. "How did I _get _here?" he demands. His voice is thick with confusion, frustration—panic. He is as close to utterly losing it as I am.

My heart breaks at my inability to answer his question satisfactorily. "What's the last thing you remember?" I ask softly. I want to reach out, I want to _touch_, to let him know he is not alone in this..._madness_, but I know it would be a mistake.

He stares into the untouched mug of tea, eyes far away as he tries to remember. "An ambush—something went…_wrong _somehow. A spell of Hawke's, maybe—"

_Is he serious oh sweet Jesus he is serious he was with Hawke and now he's with me—_

"—I remember lightning, and then I woke up here."

There is no way I'm going to get through this if I try to stay sane. So what do I do?

Roll with it, Erin. Just roll with it.


	4. Do the crazy know they're crazy?

I don't need to ask who Hawke is. I don't need to ask where Kirkwall is. As the clock ticks further into the night (_or morning-is it really almost five?_) Fenris realizes I'm asking far fewer questions than any normal person might. Suspicion darts across his elven, utterly alien features, and I brace myself. "None of this seems to surprise you," he observes warily.

I surreptitiously shift on the couch and put my mug of tea on the coffee table (I've already doused him with coffee; tea just seems unnecessary after that). I glance at my console, at the game box placed neatly on top if the sleek black console. I could lie (or tell the truth). I could tell him I've just accepted insanity. I could tell him exactly how I know the things I know; I could even tell him one or two things he couldn't imagine I know.

I do none of these things.

I rise slowly from the sofa and grab the Xbox controller. I turn on the console (and try to smile reassuringly when he looks as though he might plunge his fist into my flat screen). If he can get through this, explaining electricity will be a snap. "Just-just tell me when you've had enough?" I say lamely.

I start a new game. Fenris's eyes are riveted to the TV as the intro plays itself out, as Varric delivers his snappy lines to the Chantry's Seeker. The mug cracks into pieces (_and now my set's uneven; damn_) when Hawke tumbles gracefully across the screen and I pick a dialogue option almost at random. I pause the game.

"No," he rasps. "Keep going."

I stick with the default female Hawke appearance (_anytime I tried to mess with the facial settings she always ended up looking a little lopsided_) and pick rogue as her class. I suppose I should mention that I look NOTHING like Hawke, something I know Fenris notices because he constantly alternates his attention between the screen and my face. I want to ask him what he sees (for the sake of my vanity) but refrain.

He's frozen. Go me; I've managed to send a delusion into catatonic shock. I pause the game again and put the controller down. He comes to with a snap, and thrusts it awkwardly back into my hands. "Keep going," he demands.

"Fenris this is insane-I shouldn't have started this-"

"You bade me tell you when I have seen enough," he reminds me harshly. "And I will. _Keep going_."

I reluctantly pick up where I left off. The tea has long since gone cold and I don't dare stop playing to make more. The familiar characters swim and blur across the screen; I find myself mouthing along with my favorite lines but stop when Fenris shoots me a withering glare. I guide Hawke through the first few quests, until it shows up in my quest log.

Bait and Switch.

I can't do this anymore. I pause and angle my torso away from the TV. "I am going to make myself the strongest drink I possibly can," I tell him, "and before we take one more step toward Crazy Town, I strongly suggest you have one too."

I drink like a girl. I'm not ashamed to admit it. I pull sweet tea vodka and orange liqueur out of my cabinet and pour them over ice. I squeeze a lemon into the mix and, because I think I've earned it, add a maraschino cherry from the jar Charlie keeps hidden in the back of the fridge. I bring tequila and several lime slices back to the coffee table with me, and plunk them in front of my guest. He gives me a baffled look.

"Really?" I drawl. "They really don't have tequila in Kirkwall?" I put my drink down and grab the bottle by the neck in one hand, and a slice of lime in the other. "Swig, then bite into the lime." I demonstrate (_repressing a shudder; tequila and I haven't been friends since my junior year_) and hand him the bottle. "Let's do this thing."

"This thing" is worse than trying to explain the birds and the bees. It's worse than trying to gently break the news that Santa isn't real. I lead Hawke into the Alienage, into the booby-trapped house. I don't miss the relief on his face as I get my adventuring party in and out with no casualties; barely any scratches (speaking in terms of health and mana bars). I know what's coming, and I would give anything to take this burden from him. To spare him-

"Your men are dead, and your trap has failed."

-_THAT_.

Dawn is breaking dismally on the other side of my curtains. The weak gray light does nothing to chase out the sudden gloom, the heavy silence as Fenris gapes at his own face. At this point, I don't care he hasn't given me permission to stop the game-he's had enough. I save and shut everything down. The only sound left in the room is the clock ticking away seconds, minutes, a lifetime for all I know.

The only warning I get is the tell-tale heave of his shoulders. I dive over the back of the sofa and grab Scooter's water dish (_gonna be scrubbing that with scalding hot water later_), thrust it into his lap. The sour odor of citrus and alcohol and vomit makes my nose wrinkle, and my own stomach heaves in sympathy. Fenris purges the poison from his system and slumps miserably over the tops of his thighs.

He doesn't resist as I lead him into the bathroom. I fill the sink with warm water and press a clean washcloth into his hands. He's just another drunk boy at a party, I tell myself. I'd do this for anyone. I set out a pair of Charlie's baggy cargo shorts and an old t-shirt, and close the bedroom door behind me (and have to open it immediately for Scooter). I relax when I hear the bed frame squeak.

I'd do this for anyone.

Really.


	5. Getting to know you

**AN:** Hope everyone had a good Thanksgiving! I know I did (well, apart from my laptop crashing and my hard drive consequently malfunctioning). RL Boyfriend won't even notice I'm writing fanfic on his computer, muahahaha! Bioware owns Fenris (:crying into my coffee:); I own the rest.

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><p>7:30 am.<p>

I can't escape it. Every clock in my apartment, from the paint-by-numbers stained glass wall clock, to my cheap wristwatch attests to the time with a cheerful malice every insomniac knows well. Noises are too loud; colors and lights are painful. And acting as a background to the chorus of birdsong and the life-saving gurgle of the coffee maker is the periodic squeak of the bed frame as someone tosses and turns in the other room.

Silently I turn the knob and nudge the bedroom door open. Logic stirs faintly, feebly—_maybe Charlie came home early, it's him I hear, I fell asleep over my work again and he came home without me noticing—_and ultimately whimpers into oblivion as once again, I take in the moon-white hair, the tapered points of his ears, and the stark lines of his markings. I pull the door shut again, and have to stuff a fist between my teeth to stifle a sick giggle. _Of course he's still here. I would have had to sleep for last night to be a mere dream. _I'm not sure what disappoints me more: that last night wasn't a dream, or that I obviously didn't get any sleep.

I have to stop before I logic my way right into the loony bin.

I drain my first cup of coffee in seconds. I'm adding cream and sugar to a second when the bedroom door rattles open, and my guest emerges. The contents of my stomach feel alarmingly buoyant as I realize that even hung-over and clearly miserable, he is still the most beautiful man I've ever seen. Maybe it's an elf thing. All I know is that he needs to get _home _before I get us both into trouble.

He's leaning against the door frame, staring into his surroundings with the same angry panic I saw in him the night before. Scooter darts under the coffee table, retreats until all I can see of her is her snout, twitching wildly as she takes in his scent. Good manners triumph over common sense, and I offer him my cup of coffee. I can always make more. "Hey," I greet him softly.

He slides his fingers through the mug's handle, inhales the fragrant steam curling from the surface (_one of the best smells in the world, no matter if said world has suddenly gone bat-shit loco_). "Are you trying to poison me again?"

"Three-quarters of a bottle of tequila would poison anyone," I retort dryly, "including most marine mammals and one or two extinct varieties of mammoth." I immediately regret my glib sarcasm; he's staring into the cup of coffee with the apprehension usually reserved for royal poison testers. "Coffee's not for everyone," I add, more gently, "but it's not poison."

He takes a cautious sip. I can't help feeling gratified as I watch the change happen instantaneously. Everyone has that one _thing _that perks them up after a rough night, that one magic bullet that chases out the cobwebs, the nightmares, the crick in the neck after sleeping wrong. My morning just isn't morning without a pot of coffee so strong the spoon stands upright in the cup.

And it feels _really good _to finally find a kindred spirit.

I grin at him. He doesn't exactly smile back, but the tight lines in his brow and around his mouth slowly smooth out. Good enough. It's probably the best either of us will feel all day.

He doesn't take his eyes off my hands as I make a second pot of coffee. I've got it down to a science—nay, an _art_. I sense more than see him jump when the high-end bean grinder begins its cycle, but other than that he betrays no sign of fear as he just…_watches _me. I know that look: it's the look Charlie gets when he watches computer code run. I think it's the look _every _man gets when he's figuring out how something works. The machine growls diligently as it drips coffee into the carafe. He watches it drip for a little while, drinking his coffee; before long, though, he looks at me and I just _know _he's going to start asking _questions_.

"You know who I am," he says softly.

"You're Fenris," I answer, stupidly. "And I'm Erin. I thought we covered this."

He slams his cup onto the counter; liquid sloshes over the sides and onto the cheap beige laminate all apartments seem to have. "No," he snaps impatiently, "you know who I _am_. You know who I was before…_this_." He shoves his tattooed arm practically under my nose, and I finally understand what he's asking. And heartily wish I didn't. I feel like I need another drink. I feel like I need a _thousand _more drinks. I will be wasted all weekend, if I drink every time he asks a question.

Since I don't have nearly enough alcohol on hand to accomplish this drunk, I will have to settle for sober. I nudge his arm out of my face with my shoulder and prepare a cup of coffee for myself. "Yeah, I know who you are," I admit.

"Tell me." He's looking at me like I am the answer to every prayer and every curse he's ever thrown out into the unhearing void.

I can't look at him as I tell him the story, pieced together from the Act III personal quest and the codex entries I looked up on Wikipedia while he slept. I can't look at him as I tell him of Varania, the sister who sells him to become one of the hated magisters, the dread revelation than the markings were a prize he competed for. He looks like he might heave up his coffee as he asks me _why_, in a voice that shouldn't belong to anything living, man or beast.

"In the game, you did it to free her, and your mother," I answer softly. Carefully, I lay a hand on his shoulder, taking great care not to touch his skin. As a gesture of comfort, it feels woefully inadequate; these are the things my family likes to hug out, with lots of crying and ice cream. This still, silent grief is completely alien to me. I feel as though the only reason my hand is still attached to my wrist is not that Fenris accepts my pathetic sympathy, but that like a wounded, feral beast, he just hurts too much to notice. Or care. "On the plus side," I continue feebly, "you shove your hand through Danarius's chest and rip his living heart out. And Hadriana's, though that happens a bit earlier in the game. So there's—there's that." My hand drops limply from his shoulder. He doesn't move. I'm stuck between him and the refrigerator; the hallway to the rest of the apartment is on his other side. I curl my hands around my rapidly cooling mug of coffee, not knowing what else to do with them.

It feels like we stand there for hours, trapped in bleeding limbo. I have no mechanism, no experience to understand what he's going through. Digital minutes tick by on the microwave clock, as we stand in terrible, aching silence.

It's Scooter who ends up saving the day. I don't notice she's wiggled out from under the coffee table until she's easing her way into the kitchen. She sniffs the air, her wet nose twitching in Fenris's general direction (_did you know dogs can pick up your scent from as far away as five feet?_). Emboldened by the olfactory interview, she trots forward and sits at his feet. He jerks out of whatever trance has been holding him captive and I can see he's surprised to have fifty-odd pounds of blue-heeler-mix dog flesh sitting on his foot. Ears back, nose up, and eyes on his face, Scooter's almost completely still; her only movement is to lean ever so slightly into his leg. Tentatively, he reaches one hand down to scratch behind her ears. Her tail twitches perfunctorily and she leans into the attention, closing her eyes halfway in doggy bliss.

And just like that, the curse is broken. "I have…many more questions," he says. His entire demeanor has changed. He's looking at me again, and I can see all the things he wants to know hovering in his face.

I've gone a little gooey over the fact he's getting along with my dog—not everyone does. Plus his eyes are just so…_big_, and so _green_ that I get a bit lost in them for a couple heartbeats. "Ask anything you want," I say a little breathlessly.

"Is there any more coffee?"

I can't help it. I laugh and fall in love just a little bit. "All you want, babe."


	6. Small adventures you take every day

**AN: **Reminder: Bioware owns Fenris. (So. Sad.)

Special shout out to **Taffia**, who let me know this rambling was actually fun to read!

Big thank yous to everyone else who's taken the time to review this. This is running away with me; at this point all I can do is stay in the saddle and hope it doesn't dump me in the middle of nowhere. Y'all keep reading, I'll keep writing!

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><p>Not surprisingly, there is no handy informational pamphlet entitled "What to do when a Fictional Character Turns up in your Living Room".<p>

The sheer volume of what I _don't know_ threatens to drive me up the wall as I attempt to catch Fenris up on the choicest (read: juiciest) parts of human history as we know it. I _don't know _how he got here; I _don't know _how long he's staying. I _don't know _what's more important for him to know: the entire history of the Western World (though he gets this _gleam _in his eye when I detail the fall of the Roman Empire, and I can tell he's drawing parallels to the Imperium), or just the parts he needs to know for functioning in my six-hundred-square-foot corner of existence. In the end, I settle for explaining the little things like _electricity _and _indoor plumbing _and _the Internet_. I show him how to make a pot of coffee (_this is pot number three, or is it four?_); he actually _giggles _when I demonstrate the toilet flushing; and we spend the entire afternoon exploring the wide, fluid world of Wikipedia.

And his first peanut butter and jelly sandwich _blows his mind_. I should be elevated to sainthood for the sheer effort of will it takes not to laugh while he tries to get peanut butter off the roof of his mouth.

3:30. We take Scooter for a walk and I realize, far too late, that I neglected a rather crucial piece of his crash course on the modern world: _vehicles_.

The stationary cars in my complex's parking lot don't faze him much; no matter how strange they look (_there is absolutely no excuse or explanation for the PT Cruiser_), he's at least come to realize that if it's not moving, it's most likely not dangerous. This all changes when we get to the street and a pickup whizzes by at a terrifying thirty-five miles per hour. The smell of diesel chokes the air; it's one of those customized models that sound like a race car no matter how fast you're going. I make the customary disparaging comment on the driver's manhood and am ready to go about business as normal, when I realize Fenris has frozen to the sidewalk beside me.

He glares accusingly at me. "You said there was no magic," he snaps. He takes a half-step backwards as a sedan turns onto the side street we're on. "You told me it was all wires, or pipes."

Oh _hell_. I'm not even sure _I _completely understand how the combustion engine works. I was never any good at chemistry, or physics (_which is why it's so damn funny that I'm in graduate school for science_). But he looks about to bolt when a city bus trundles past, and I know I have to give it my best shot without resorting to inane explanations like "the tiny horses live inside the engine". "It's _not _magic, Fenris," I hasten to reassure him. "It's—well, it's complicated." I pull my phone out and pull up the mobile Wikipedia site. I peruse it in record time, conscious of Fenris moving farther and farther away from the busy street. "It's like this," I explain, "there's a big mess of gears and cables, called an engine. It needs fuel to work—pumps and things move the fuel from the gas tank to the engine, which causes a reaction that converts the fuel to energy. And the engine runs, which makes the wheels move, the brakes, the steering wheel, everything." I grin weakly at him. He _looks _reassured, but only marginally.

It's a terrible idea. It has the potential to permanently traumatize this man, beyond slavery, the markings, and finding himself stuck with an idiot girl who can't even coherently explain her own world. But sometimes the only way you learn how to swim is to jump head-first into the deep end (_says a few things about how I was raised_). "Do you want to go for a ride?" I ask. "I can show you what I mean."

I watch on tenterhooks as he gives the question all its due consideration. I have fun imagining the thoughts running through his head and try to steel myself against disappointment when he inevitably refuses. I'm so caught up in this endeavor that I miss his actual response entirely, and have to ask him to repeat it.

"Let's go," he huffs impatiently.

His attitude puts my back up. It's only when I get closer and notice how _tight _he is, from his face, to his hunched shoulders, to his stiff gait, that I realize how absolutely _terrified _he is. I rein in Scooter's exuberant, spastic walk and lead him to my car (_perfectly respectable Saturn_). I know exactly where I'm going to take him. "Don't worry," I tell him as Scooter hops into the backseat. I spend a few minutes explaining the high points of seat belts, and airbags (_do you know what an airbag actually _does_? Fucking terrifying_). "You're perfectly safe," I promise.

I turn my key in the ignition. I roll out of the parking lot. He relaxes as we pick up a little speed on the main thoroughfare through the city, even rolls down the window and sticks his head out. The crisp autumn wind whips through the car's interior, and all of a sudden it's one of those _moments_—the ones you know you will remember even though there's nothing special about them (_aside from the fact that I have a very passenger who shouldn't even exist_).

Fenris tilts his head back until it touches the headrest. His hair spikes and stirs erratically as it bends to the whim of the wind, and his eyes slowly drift shut. It's a struggle to keep my eyes on the road—I want to _see _this. I shift my attention periodically between the road and his face. Something _happens _and I _miss _it because I'm trying not to kill us, but between one glance at his face and the next, he's smiling. Not the not-quite-a-smile from our coffee in the kitchen, but a definite upward tilt at the corners of his mouth. It reminds me of the occasional half-smiles he'd give Hawke during the game. Right before he'd—

Oh.

Oh _fuck_.

There's a part of my brain that starts swearing violently and inventively as it tries to drag the rest of me back from a dangerous precipice at the bottom of the proverbial slippery slope before I go tumbling off the edge of the map. Not going there. Not now, not ever. I'm glad his eyes are closed—he misses my completely silent freak out. I concentrate on keeping my breathing quiet, even, and _normal _as I pull into a parking lot.

Scooter, with the typical canine disregard for emotionally charged crises of self, begins to whimper with excitement as she recognizes her surroundings. Fenris's eyes flutter open (_oh be still my beating heart. Please_) and he follows me curiously as I grab Scooter and a Frisbee from the back seat. I toss a smile over my shoulder as I lead the way across the damp, spongy lawn. "Welcome to Riverside Park!"

We are not the only geniuses with this plan—a park at 3:30 on a Saturday afternoon—but it is far less crowded than it could be, perhaps due to the fact that most people don't like scrubbing mud off their pants. Last night's thunderstorm has left deep brown puddles in the middle of the walkways, caught between the roots of trees, and in the cedar-chip pit under the jungle gym. Scooter perks up her ears and watches a gang of teenagers kick around a soccer ball with rapt attention. A few other people are here with their dogs (and I nudge Scooter away from these; she tends to be a little…_too _friendly, the slut). And through this idyllic picture of weekend recreation, cuts the river. I slip out of my shoes and pick my way down the soggy banks to stand in the shallows; Fenris follows suit. Scooter licks her lips in anticipation as I unclip her leash and toss the Frisbee into the water. With an ungainly splash, she takes off after it, doggy-paddling furiously.

"So this is pretty much it," I say after a moment of watching my dog chase her toy downriver. I'm standing in the shallows, water up to my ankles. "Modern life." I wiggle my toes in the soft mud, and am able to forget for a few minutes that I haven't slept in…a day and a half, now. Scooter's caught up with her Frisbee and brings it back in triumphant exuberance. I toss it again. "It's no Kirkwall, but maybe it won't be so bad while we figure out how to get you home."

Fenris follows the brightly-colored disc with his eyes, and his lips twitch upwards again as he watches the dog chase indignantly after it. "No," he allows, "it won't be so bad."

My back is to him. I glance over my shoulder, and his eyes are on me.

_Here there be monsters, Erin._


	7. Spin cycle

There's an additional car in the parking lot when Fenris, Scooter and I return (_sixteen Frisbee tosses and three aborted squirrel chases later_). Dread goose-steps its way into a headache that throbs just behind my eyes. I've been walking a fine line between reality and insanity, and so far, I think I've been pretty successful. But the sight of Charlie's battered Toyota pick-up has me renovating the house of cards I've constructed for myself with a wrecking ball.

Fenris picks up on my mood swing instantly. I feel guilty for being the reason he suddenly seems to tighten into a coil. "What's wrong?" he demands. He glances warily out the window—no doubt looking for an explanation for my sudden trepidation.

"My boyfriend's home," I murmur. I'm _really _not looking forward to this conversation. For a craven moment, I contemplate peeling back out of the parking lot and going back to the park to toss the Frisbee some more. But there is really nothing for it but to brazen it out, head held high. _Besides_, I try to reassure myself, _maybe Charlie will believe all…_this_. _

_ Yeah, right._

Charlie's just stepping out of the bathroom when my strange entourage and I enter the apartment. His broad, happy-to-be-home smile drops from his narrow face so suddenly I imagine I can hear it shatter on the hardwood floor when he notices Fenris standing behind me. He ignores Scooter's ecstatic greeting, glancing rapidly between me and my unexpected guest; I can see the wheels turn in his head as he tries to get a feel for who Fenris might be to me (_you know, besides the obvious_). Every demon in our relationship, demons I thought we'd long ago put to rest, rear their heads between us with hungry, malicious smiles. Charlie pastes on a social smile that looks all wrong when it's paired with the suspicion glittering coldly in his hazel eyes. "I don't believe we've met," he says, gaze on Fenris.

I step forward. I will take control of the situation. I will take out Scooter's old shock collar and put it on my boyfriend. I might do that anyway. "Fenris, this is my boyfriend, Charlie. Charlie, this is Fenris."

Charlie's hard expression transfers to me. He's looking for something—_anything_—that will let him know this is a joke in extremely poor taste. Failing that, he's looking for something that will let him know I'm crazy (_haven't completely ruled that out yet_) and that I can't be held responsible for the outlandish things that come out of my mouth. "Fenris," he repeats slowly. "As in…_Fenris_."

I nod, _way _too cheerfully. "He came in late last night. Or very early this morning. We were just about to start brainstorming ideas on how he got here and how to get him back to Kirkwall."

"Erin has been kind enough to offer her hospitality," Fenris puts in politely.

It is exactly the wrong thing to say. I see Charlie jump to all the wrong conclusions as clearly as though he had a "Jump to All the Jealous Boyfriend Conclusions" mat rolled out on the floor. His crystal-hard eyes don't leave my face as he practically spits, "I'll bet she has."

So much for taking control of the situation. My temper spikes, and I glare at him. "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Erin!" Charlie shouts. "You expect me to believe that this is _the _Fenris?"

I don't say _yes _out loud. It would just make things worse. _Can things even get worse?_

"Who is he to you, Erin, really?" Charlie demands. "I deserve to know that much."

I cling stubbornly to the impossible truth. I vividly remember the shock of blue light, the terrifying reality of my throat being crushed from the inside. I could ask Fenris to help me prove it. He might even do it. But this has suddenly gone way beyond my strange houseguest, and somehow, I don't think Fenris can pull it back from wherever it's going. "I told you," I snap, "his name is Fenris. He blew in with the thunderstorm last night." I'm highly conscious of Fenris standing awkwardly behind me. "Look, can we maybe take this outside?" I ask, striving for manners, for control, for _normal_.

Charlie looks like he might argue, but the rules of polite company dictate his actions as much as they dictate mine. He nods tightly and follows me out the front door. _I'm sorry_, I mouth to Fenris on my way out.

Charlie doesn't miss a beat. "So, you're saying he's _the _Fenris, from _the _Kirkwall," he sneers skeptically. "Come on, Erin."

"That's exactly what I'm saying," I huff impatiently. "I don't know how he got here," I continue hurriedly. "The storm scared me. I hid in the bathroom, and when I came out, he was on the couch."

"So naturally you just assume he's the real thing and take him under your wing?"

"Let me hear _your _scintillating thoughts on the matter, Charlie," I snarl. "What shining example of logic can you offer?"

"He's just some guy in a costume, Erin!" he shouts insistently. "He broke in during the storm—you _know _you're bad about keeping the door locked—and you have such a _boner _for Fenris you just swallowed whatever story he gave you. It's a good costume, I'll give him that. But it's _just a costume_."

It's logical. Practically airtight. It very closely resembles my own thoughts from the first few seconds of my acquaintance with Fenris. Right before he squeezed his fingers into my throat. And all of a sudden I'm so _angry _I can't even think straight. The sleep deprivation probably isn't helping either. "And so, what? I swooned into his manful, broody arms and let him ravish me?" I demand. "Just what do you take me for?" My arms are crossed and it feels like there's six years of space between me and this _stranger_.

Charlie seems to sense he's losing the high ground and tries to back-pedal. "I didn't say that," he says soothingly, reaching for me. "I know you wouldn't—"

I dodge his attempt to pull me into an embrace. "Funny way you've got of showing it," I retort. "It's _him_, all right? His tattoos lit up, and I had to throw old coffee in his face to get him off me."

That makes him pause for a minute. But my ace in the hole isn't enough. "It was probably just paint," he argues. "Erin, babe, I know you like to see the best in people, but…_Fenris_? It can't be him. It just _can't_."

Time seems to stop. The world stills utterly, as though holding its breath. No birdsong, no whisper of a breeze breaks the silence as too late, I recognize where we are. "I can't do this, Charlie," I say quietly. "Not this time."

"This time?" he echoes, and there's a shred of desperation in his voice that lets me know _he _knows where we are too. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying you would rather believe the absolute _worst _of me than for one second believe in something you couldn't explain," I accuse him. "I'm saying you would rather believe I was a liar, a slut, and an _idiot_ than even _try _to believe in the impossible. And _I can't stand it._" Hot tears prick my eyes, pushed out by the pounding headache. "Normally it isn't a problem—I can believe enough for the both of us. But I can't this time." I taste salt; I feel like the next words are dragged out of me almost involuntarily. I was right; Fenris can't drag us back from this _place _any more than I can. "I'm done, Charlie. _We're _done."

Ever feel yourself about to fall, catch yourself, and then wish you hadn't bothered? Sporting a sprained wrist, scraped knee, various bruises and a fantastic limp, you wonder if maybe just letting the fall happen would have hurt less?

That's kind of what this feels like, as I spend another hour and a half numbly sticking to my decision as Charlie tries to plead with me to reconsider, as he apologizes, as he gives up. As he takes the steps that will carry him out of me. And I realize, for the first time, just _how much _I needed him to believe in magic _just this once_.


	8. Like being in a funhouse

One world can fracture into many smaller worlds; self-contained multi-celled organisms with permeable membranes I can pass in and out of.

There is the world of Out There, where my smile is a brittle lie and I tell anyone who asks no, I didn't do much this weekend. I debate articles and book chapters with scholarly aplomb, point and counterpoint, lofty in my unwavering confidence that here, at least, I know where I stand. This is the world without The Event—the catalyst for the schism in my life. The Event can be anything—a death in the family, (_or in my case, a simultaneous deviation in reality and a break-up_). It seems outrageous, but in the world of Out There, time continues to have meaning. Out There continues to turn, regardless of desperate wishes to the contrary. I have to be a part of Out There—I'm a graduate student, and quite frankly, I have shit to do. Theses don't write themselves.

Then there is the world of Inside. This is a world with The Event. The Event is acknowledged, and if you are lucky, grief is shared between the other inhabitants of this world. I am not so fortunate. Three out of four fellow inhabitants cannot speak—cats and dogs being tragically lacking in the correct physiology for comprehensible vocalization—and the fourth may not even exist. Time is more fluid here; hours can go by without anyone really noticing. In the world of Inside, you attend to your own needs, because sooner or later your body will force you to. You eat, you feed those who depend on you (_though if Scooter had thumbs she'd be on her own_), and you interact with others in Inside out of necessity. Fenris continues to click his way through the last eight thousand years or so of human history (_turns out he can read; who knew?_) as I drift in and out of Inside.

Finally, there is _Inside_. _Inside_ and The Event are, for all intents and purposes, the same thing. This is where The Event takes you; this is what The Event makes you feel. It is a world you carry inside you, but can't show to anyone without also laying bare the most vulnerable parts of your _self_. This is the world of _alone_; no one else can experience it with you. This is where I go after the bedroom door is closed, after the lights are off, after the hide-a-bed couch in the living room has stopped squeaking as Fenris settles. I can't tell whether or not I sleep in _Inside_. The cats come out from their daytime hiding places and claim parts of me for their nighttime perches: Virgil curls possessively against the small of my back, and Binx restlessly paces atop the headboard. I like to think he is keeping away the worst of _Inside_.

Sooner or later, though, these small worlds have to merge into one world again.

I'm _Inside_ when the knock sounds on the front door. Fenris must have answered, because soon afterwards the bedroom door opens and I'm overwhelmed by some expensive floral scent. The only part I'm conscious of moving is my head. My visitor's outline is indistinct, but no less familiar. Chocolate-brown hair cascades in bouncing waves down her back, frames two periwinkle blue eyes set in a sweet, heart-shaped face. Binx darts away nervously while Virgil picks up his head and sniffs with lazy interest. Without being invited, she lifts the covers and crawls into Charlie's old spot. "You look terrible," she says with blunt affection.

I crumble into my little sister's gardenia-scented embrace. She tucks my head into her shoulder, and under the polish and the feeling she just came from someplace exotic, she smells like home. She lets me cry myself hoarse into her ivory cashmere sweater, and then, without me being truly cognizant of what's happening, pulls all my tiny worlds back together.

"What are you doing here, Helena?" I hiccup.

She wriggles out of the bed, comes back with a glass of water and two aspirin. "Charlie made your breakup FB official," she replies matter-of-factly (_and she actually says "eff-bee"_). "He's friends with Eric, who's friends with Michelle, who's friends with Lee, who's friends with my ex. And just _why _did I have to hear about _your _breakup from _my _ex, hm?"

Inside becomes Out There, and Out There drags me out of _Inside_. I pop the two aspirin into my mouth and chase it with the water. I am, as ever, annoyed and mystified by my sister's vast, inexplicable tangle of contacts and gossip. "I haven't felt like talking to anyone," I dodge. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Isn't it obvious? I'm here to make you feel better. I brought my breakup kit."

A chill of comic foreboding shivers down my spine as I listen to Helena's idea of a post-breakup pick-me-up. She pulls out all the stops from every movie about any sleepover, ever—facials, haircuts, manicures, pedicures—and I can just feel my day spiraling out of my control.

"First, though, you _must_ introduce me to that _man _sitting on your couch," Helena gushes.

_Well, I guess he exists_. "Fine," I acquiesce. "And then I shower. You're right—I'm disgusting." I make the introductions as rapidly as is considered acceptable (_and get an enthusiastic thumbs-up from Helena behind Fenris's back_) and retreat into the bathroom.

The steam and hot water fill all the empty places _Inside _left in me with a soothing warmth that makes me feel incredibly relaxed. I indulge myself and pull out all the expensive, organic shower goodies Helena gave me for my birthday months ago. Citrus smells, flower smells, spice smells—one after another they wash all the _ick _off of me, and I feel as though layers of negativity are being pulled away from my skin, from my soul. I scrub, I sponge—I even shave. I step out and dry off with one of the huge bath sheets Charlie never liked (_fuck him anyway; no more thinking about Charlie_), and finally—_finally_—feel like I recognize the person standing in the mirror as something approaching human.

Helena barges in with a _suitcase_ of instruments that look suspiciously like medieval torture devices. My tiny bathroom is turned into an impromptu beauty salon and spa; she slathers something on my face that smells like blueberry cheesecake (_and there goes my human feeling_) and begins tweezing, plucking, buffing me into something from a fashion magazine. All the while, she keeps up a steady stream of questions that as my sister, she has a right to know the answers to. I give her the bare bones version—Charlie crossed a line, I dumped him for it. End of story.

"It most certainly is not!" she protests. "You don't spend four days practically in a coma just because someone 'crossed a line'. What line? And where does Fenris fit into this?" She gasps as she jumps to the same place Charlie did (_but with far less explosive results_). "Oh my god, did you _cheat _on Charlie with him?" Her broad, gossip-hen grin tells me she hopes the answer is yes.

Which is why I so relish telling her, "No—we're just friends."

She snorts in a sort of despairing disgust. "What a waste—he's like, Tolkien's person cabana boy." She digs I-know-not-what from her kit and starts working on my toes. "But Charlie just assumed you did cheat on him? Ass. So how did you meet Fenris?"

_Crap_. My brain, sluggish from (_apparently_) four more days with no true sleep struggles to come up with _something_. We all saw how well the truth went over. "Promise you won't tell Mom and Dad?" I stall.

She nods fervently and extends her pinky. I crook mine around it and take a deep breath. "The truth is we met online." Any minute now my pants are going to burst into flame. There will be screaming. "We're part of the same local Xbox Live server. He had a big fight with his roommate and asked if he could crash with me for a couple days while he figured out something else." I swear it smells like smoke in here.

Helena eats it up like candy, though. She pinky-swears again that she won't tell our parents (_which means she'll tell everyone BUT our parents_) and packs her suitcase away. She turns me towards the mirror and smirks triumphantly at my dumbstruck expression.

I remember now why I don't really wear makeup often. When I try to doll myself up, I end up looking like a clown. I have no real concept of beauty, besides taking good care of my skin (_I can only afford one face, might as well make it last_) and panicking whenever stress and hormones make me look sixteen again. When Helena does my makeup, I look like something else entirely. She's painted layers upon layers of shadows, contours and colors onto my face, and yet, it _works_. She's teased my reddish-brown hair into something sleek and face-framing; even under my coke-bottle-thick glasses, my eyes look dramatic and smoky. And _green_.

To sum up—"I look _hot_," I breathe to my reflection.

Helena preens and steers me out of the bathroom. "I promise you, you won't be the only one who thinks so," she trills. She pushes me into the desk-chair-shaped clothes rack in the bedroom and darts into my modest closet. "Don't move-I'm going to find you something to wear." Clothes rustle, hangers clack together as she roots through my collection of jeans, sweaters, button-down blouses-"_Jesus_, Erin, do you own _anything _besides jeans?" she exclaims in frustration.

_Yes_. "Nope," I lie blithely.

She emerges with a pair of figure-hugging Levis, a long-sleeved shirt, and a low-cut sweater I wasn't aware I had. "This is the best I can do with what you've got," she huffs, and tosses the outfit at me as though it had personally offended her and her fabulous shoes. Knowing Helena, it probably had. I obediently pull it over my head and wiggle my way into the jeans. I put my foot down when it comes to the footwear (_pun definitely intended_) and make her hand me a pair of warm socks that look like someone killed and skinned the Cookie Monster. The socks somewhat lessen the knockout effect of my ensemble, but my feet are warm. Priorities.

I smell fresh coffee. Fenris is standing in the kitchen, glaring at the electric stovetop. There is a pan of raw bacon sitting on one of the heater coils. "Why won't you _sizzle_?" he growls. He turns when he hears us approach, and I am woman enough to feel satisfied when he has to do a double-take. I reach across him and click the dial to "On". "That usually helps," I say with a small smile.

He almost smiles back and hands me a cup of coffee, cream and sugar already added.

_Swoon_.


	9. Liquid SOMETHING

"Let's go _out_!" Helena suggests merrily.

I've perched on the kitchen counter; happily adrift in a sea of bacon-and-coffee smells (_and a pair of bright green eyes that don't seem to blink as often as is considered normal_), I don't realize exactly what she's said until she repeats it. "Out?" I echo blankly. "Oh—no, Hel, I don't think that's—"

"I did not just spend an hour and a half turning you into a _goddess_ for you to sit at home and mope," she interrupts indignantly. "There has to be _someplace _we can go to show you off."

I'm highly conscious of Fenris watching this family drama unfold with more than a passing curiosity. I try to catch his eye, hoping to find an ally in my desire to remain at home, where my Cookie Monster socks are acceptable attire, but nope: he ducks his face into his coffee mug with a slight smirk that says _You're on your own_.

I'm mustering a feeble protest when I'm saved—Helena's cell phone sends out a shrill signal from her pocket. She makes a face at the readout and mutters, "I have to take this." She slips outside for privacy, and before too long she's pacing the (_virtually nonexistent_) porch and gesticulating emphatically.

Fenris follows her with his eyes, as one might watch a tiger that's suddenly decided to go vegetarian. He's discarded the conspicuous black steel-and-leather armor for a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt that hangs off his lean frame. I choke on my coffee as I recognize the shirt as Charlie's. _So much for not thinking about him_. "Your sister is a force to be reckoned with," he remarks after a moment's thoughtful consideration.

"She is at that," I agree fondly. There is a palpable awkwardness in the air, now that it's just the two of us; a feeling of something left unresolved. Our first real conversation in days, and I've already run out of small, inconsequential things to say. "Listen, Fenris—I'm sorry about the past few days. I, uh, I haven't exactly been an ideal ambassador for the modern world. So—"

"It is I should apologize," he interrupts (_Christ, can't a girl finish a thought?_). "Your relationship with your lover is over because of me."

"My relationship with Charlie ended," I snap back, "because we disagreed on a few key points. Like where the line is between what is possible and what is _real_. And he never really got along with Scooter," I add, trying to backpedal from the bitter sarcasm in my voice. "You're here, you're real. I think 'possible' has kind of taken a back seat."

He relaxes, maybe even cheers up a little. "I know what that is—it's the part of the car behind the driver's seat."

_That's adorable. _I bump his coffee mug with mine in congratulations. "We'll make a modern city-slicker out of you yet," I tease him. We go back to watching Helena, who is shouting rapid-fire obscenities into her palm. I can already tell I'm going to end up giving in to her desire to go _out_. I try to convince myself it won't be so bad; a drink and some noise will do me some good after playing hermit crab for the last few days. I succeed, for the most part, even have a place in mind.

I have a theory: elven faces are uniquely immune to covert scrutiny. It is impossible to tell exactly what Fenris thinks of going _out. _Is he even _ready _to go out? Helena's idea of a night on the town usually involves bright lights, drunken men with more testosterone than sense, and music so heavy with bass you can feel your heart developing an arrhythmia. Once again, I'm overwhelmed by all the things I _don't know _about Fenris: I _don't know _how he'll handle sweaty, bouncing crowds (_well, I have an idea but it's not a pretty image_); I _don't know _for certain what will and won't set him off. I don't want to be held responsible for the inevitable (_hilarious_) tragedy when some inebriated frat boy bumps into him exactly the wrong way.

Which is why when Helena comes back, I put it into terms I know she'll understand: I make it all about me. I cajole, I wheedle (_and, I'm ashamed to admit, whine_) and manage to convince her that while going out sounds lovely, I'm just not _ready _for the lights and crowds and being pawed by strangers. I want to go somewhere I'll feel _comfortable_. She's still in crisis-sister mode, so I get my way, just this once.

Yeah. Occasionally I use my powers for evil. I'll make it up to her.

"You have no issue with lights and crowds," Fenris accuses me sotto voice on the way to Helena's car. "You're more concerned with how _I _will react."

_Busted_. "All right, that's part of it," I confess. "But truly, I just want to have a beer at a quiet corner table, where I can people-watch and have it not be so creepy."

He's looking at me, but his eyes are suddenly very far away. He seems to deflate, to pull inwards away from the rough blacktop parking lot, the power lines and cell towers and toward a place I can't reach, despite how much I might wish to. "I can sympathize," he murmurs. He blinks (_is this the first time all day?_) and he's back in the parking lot, in borrowed clothes that look strangely good on him. "I suppose I should be grateful you know me so well," he adds. He doesn't sound grateful at all—more resigned than anything. "Next to Danarius, you may be the one person who knows me best."

I can tell you, I don't appreciate being compared to slave-owning sadist who trades lives like Halloween candy. "The only thing I know for certain about you, Fenris, is that you make a killer pot of coffee," I tell him firmly. "The rest is guesswork that so far, has just happened to be right."

He's silent on the short ride to my favorite bar; all I can see of him in Helena's rearview mirror is the fringe of his hair and the tips of his ears. _Is he thinking? Is he mad? Is he brooding? _I'm back to my earlier theory about elven facial expressions (_or lack thereof, apparently_). We clearly need to work out some sort of code.

If you blink, you'll probably miss it. Sidewalk Stop was probably once a house; the parking lot is basically where the driveway used to be. It's more porch than inside bar. The wooden deck wraps all the way around the four whitewashed walls; a set of narrow stairs leads into an uncovered patio area littered with low tables and park-style benches. It's early, too early even for happy hour, so we have our pick of tables. Helena offers to buy the first round while I cut a razor-edged path toward my favorite corner table, Fenris close behind.

That thick, cloudy awkwardness is back. We watch Helena flirt with the bartender; we watch the people passing by on the sidewalk; basically, we look at anything but each other. Helena brings back three brown bottles, takes one look at us, and trills something about "silly me, forgot to powder my nose before we left the apartment" and disappears into the bar's mood-lit interior.

_Damn_. "Fenris, listen—"

"Erin, I—"

I break off as we both start talking at once—back to the awkward. "Um, you first," I mumble. I pick anxiously at the damp label; the condensation on the bottle makes peeling it off easy. I'm halfway into making an origami crane (_or something_) when Fenris speaks again.

"I did not intend to make you believe I was angry with you," he says softly. It sounds like an apology; I'm just not sure for what. "I lived in Kirkwall for almost four years—I _knew _my place in Kirkwall. I _knew _where I stood with Hawke, with each of her companions. But here? I do not understand who I _am _in this place."

_Join the club, sweetcakes_. "Are you ranting or do you want my opinion yet?" I ask him. "I'm finding it hard to tell."

He freezes. His eyes meet mine over the electric candle in the middle of the table. It _looks_ like yes, but—"Okay, speak, please? I don't speak brood-ese yet."

He chuckles. It is a startling sound—one I remember from the game. But I'm rapidly learning that those shining moments are mere puppetry compared to the real thing, in the flesh. "Please, I would like to hear your opinion." He doesn't take his eyes from my face as he tips his drink to his lips.

"I know who you were in Kirkwall," I begin. "Danarius's pet experiment. Escaped slave. Assassin. Mercenary, on occasion. And, if you'd not gotten dropped here, Hawke's lover. Yeah, that's right," I interrupt myself upon seeing his stricken expression. The drink and sleep deprivation are making me feel bold (_which, considering the company I'm keeping, could also mean suicidal_). "You hated all mages, hated magic itself, because of what it did to you in Tevinter. And always, _always_, you knew you were living on borrowed time. Sooner or later, Danarius would come for you." I grin at him—a jester's grin full of crazy. "But here's the thing, Fenris—_none of that is true here_. And if none of the things that created Kirkwall-you apply here, then what's the only logical conclusion?"

"You're drunk?" he interjects dryly.

"That…is a possibility. But not where I was going. What I'm trying to say is that _you get to choose who you are_, because the things that are true of Kirkwall-you aren't true of Texas-you."

It's an ironclad argument. I've written papers that weren't this airtight. Hell, I think my _thesis _has more holes in its argument that this does.

So it really takes the wind out of my three sheets logic when he frowns disapprovingly and says, "I don't _feel _any different. I'm still… all those things. Besides Hawke's lover, that is."

"You know that, and I know that," I console him (_or try to_). "But does anyone else? Nope! And you know what else?" I giggle and lean forward conspiratorially. "No one knows you're here, besides you and me. Know what that makes you?"

"Lost?" he ventures cautiously.

I shake my head, as excited as a child on Christmas morning (_Jesus I need to get some honest-to-God sleep_). "Uh-uh," I giggle. I lean a little further forward, until my lips are roughly in alignment with his ear. "You're _free_."

The rest of the evening passes in and out of my memory in a haze. I'm barely cognizant of two pairs of hands gripping me, steering me across gravel and blacktop. I'm flying, far and away. I crash-land in a cloud, warm from the heat of a distant sun. Sensation flows away from me as I drift on the surface of the sky, and then I remember nothing at all as I roll off my cloud and plunge into the star-dusted night.


	10. There's a nightmare in my closet

**AN: **Just because I haven't mentioned it in a while, I'd like to remind everyone that Bioware owns its intellectual property.

I know this one's short, but I wanted to put something up in case I don't get a chance to update the rest of the weekend (it being finals and all, I SHOULD really study...). I'd like to thank ALL of you for sticking with this. Special shout-outs go to **Taffia**, for being the first (and most frequent, 3) reviewer, and to **Pwny** and **teviko** for adding to the pool.

And to everyone else who's jumped onto the bucking plot-bronco with me, THANK YOU!

* * *

><p>It feels as though morning is the only thing that's gone right in a week. I wake gently, <em>naturally<em>, as the sun gradually brightens my east-facing bedroom. I can hear music, a sweet background to dawn; faint aromas of coffee somehow drifts under the door and straight into my olfactory processors, and for about five minutes I enjoy the illusion that all is well, all is as it should be in my tiny slice of the world. I burrow deeper into my nest of mismatched covers and bury my face in my pillow. Maybe if I stay here, I can recapture the floating sensation from last night.

But this is of course impossible. I'm increasingly conscious of the pressing needs of my body, not to mention the three-tier cake of makeup that is undoubtedly smeared all over my face and onward to kingdom come. Before too long, physiology will force me out from my haven and back into the deepening rabbit hole my life has all of a sudden become. Whatever happens, I refuse to face it with smeared makeup and a full bladder.

Lights are on, but nobody's home. The source of the music quickly becomes apparent: Helena's plugged my iPod into my speaker system. There's fresh coffee in the kitchen, food in Scooter's bowl (_there should be food in the cats' bowls too but I think Scooter's already taken care of that_) but no sign of either Helena or Fenris. I dig a bagel out of the pantry and push it into the toaster; pour myself a cup of coffee. You'd think that after the elevated levels of distilled insanity over the past few days, I'd be grateful for the alone time. But I'm really just bored. I perch on the countertop and bang my heels restlessly on the cabinet doors. Where _are _they?

There is a salty tang to the stale air as the heater clicks on. I can hear the steady hiss of waves on some distant shore, the shrill cries as gulls scold one another. I let it lull me into a sort of stupor, feel it carry me to places I hold in memory. San Diego's probably gorgeous this time of year—

"_Anath ara_, spirit."

My cup tumbles from my limp grasp, spilling coffee willy-nilly as it shatters into blue-willow-patterned fragments. Under the salt and sea, there is the unmistakable reek of fresh-spilled blood. I'm afraid to turn my head—_oh Jesus Christ please don't let it be another one, please don't let this be getting worse, maybe if I don't look I can pretend I imagined it_—but it's unavoidable when the voice repeats the greeting I _shouldn't be able to recognize and understand, for FUCK'S SAKE!_

She's standing _in _(_no, on, it definitely has to be ON_) my coffee table. She's shorter and leaner than even Helena, with brown hair tied into flyaway braids. Her chain shirt jingles unobtrusively as she moves toward me. One end of a long staff sticks out from behind her shoulder, but weirdly, that's not what worries me. I'm more concerned with the dagger she holds in one hand, and the thin ribbon of blood trickling down her other arm much faster than I think is recommended, judging by the thick trail she's leaving behind her. She seems to realize this, because a panic-stricken expression is suddenly stamped on her undeniably elven features. I can only watch in horror as she—_wait, what?_—opens a fresh cut on the inside of her arm, then another, then _another_.

I should stop this—she needs _help_ before she bleeds to death, hallucination or not—but she's flickering in and out of my field of vision somehow without moving. "I can't keep it open!" she howls miserably. And then she's gone.

I can feel myself start to fall; I'm powerless to stop myself from ending up exactly like the poor unfortunate coffee cup—

I shoot out from under my covers, tripping on the sheet wrapped around my ankle. And then the shaking starts, and doesn't stop. Not even after Helena strokes my hair and starts running me a bath. The hot water and bubbles (_Helena's suggestion_) may do wonders for my skin, but they don't chase away the cold fear in the pit of my stomach, or the dawning realization that I am in _way _over my head.


	11. Fenris interrupted

**AN: ***berates the plot-bronco placidly swishing its tail in the fertile fields of her wild imagination* I'm going to fail ALL my classes, and it's going to be ALL YOUR FAULT! Half an hour of studying, and you give me this? Why don't you make yourself useful? Help me remember STATS! W-wait, where are you going? Hey, you can't leave me here! We have holiday hijinks to write! I'm sorry! Come back!

*ahem* So yeah, this happened. In the middle of studying. Gonna head back to that. I'll keep sugar-cubes in my pocket; brings the plot-broncos back every time.

* * *

><p>I'm scrubbed clean, dry, and mostly warm, dressed in my favorite flannel pajama pants, my Cookie Monster socks, and a bulky sweater. Every now and then my hands will tremble, but I hide this by shoving them into the sweater's pockets. Helena doesn't notice, but I think Fenris does—his pine-green eyes narrow suspiciously at my pocket, and my untouched coffee cup on the nightstand.<p>

"I was concerned before, but now I'm officially worried," Helena's saying with all due authority. "Maybe I should stay for a few more days, just in case—"

"I'm _fine_," I insist. I focus on my sister; if I try to look at Fenris I have no doubt he'll know I'm lying. "It's the first real sleep I've gotten in days, my first night _really _sleeping alone—it was just a bad dream, Helena. Alcohol and sleep deprivation don't mix, you know."

"My manager will understand—she likes you—look, I'll call her and tell her—"

"—you'll be back at work bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by the time Strings opens tonight," I interrupt firmly. "Bad dreams _happen_—remember the one you had about turning into a frog and absolutely _no one _would kiss you?"

She does remember. She blushes under her blush (_ha, even she looks like a clown when that happens_) and drops her gaze to her toes. "You said it meant I was afraid of being alone," she mumbles.

I'd been fibbing then, too—I have no idea what dreams mean. But it got her off my back then, and it gets her off my back now. "Corinne _has _been texting me every ten minutes, asking when I'll be back," she admits guiltily. "She's starting to sound kind of desperate."

"Because you're the only one who knows how to keep temperamental musicians on schedule," I soothe her. "Tell you what," I add when she still looks unconvinced of my mental stability, "take me out for breakfast before you head home. I need a good greasy meal, and Corinne needs you. But since I'm your sister, I get to go first." I grin cheerfully. "I'm _fine_, Helena," I repeat.

I finally wear her down, and Fenris volunteers to stay at the apartment (_and the look he gives me is very reminiscent of my father. "We'll discuss this when you get home," it says_). The benefits to living in a college town are wide and varied; among them, the abundance of greasy spoon diners and the social acceptability of going out in public in one's pajamas. I'm digging into my arterial declaration of war (_scrambled eggs, hot sauce, and hash browns, and don't pretend you aren't jealous_) as Helena listlessly picks at her fruit whole-wheat crepe.

Don't lie to your family. It has ways of coming back to bite you. I learn this when Helena blindsides me with "You'll bring Fenris to Thanksgiving, right?"

Tabasco somehow ends up in my respiratory tract as nightmare images start imprinting themselves on my mind's eye: introducing Fenris to my parents, my Prohibitionist-era grandmother; trying to explain the markings; trying to keep straight all the half-truths and outright lies that, however outrageous, are still easier to swallow than the truth. But when the only alternative (_since Charlie and I split_) is trying to cook a Thanksgiving feast in my tiny galley-style kitchen, for two people, a dog, and two cats…I'd rather field every question my family could throw at me. While standing on hot coals. Naked. Thanksgiving's kind of a big deal, is what I'm getting at here.

So it is with a sick smile of mingled dread and anticipation that I say, "Of course I'll bring him. The more the merrier, right?"

Helena is all smiles as we pay our tab and head back to my place. "Mom is going to be _so _pleased!" she exclaims giddily. "You know she was _crushed _that you'd be spending Thanksgiving with Charlie's family? Problem solved!"

Guilt squirms, serpent-like, somewhere between my diaphragm and my stomach as I wave her out of my parking lot. For the second time, I'm not looking forward to the conversation I have waiting for me on the other side of my front door; I wonder if it wouldn't be better to just hide in my car until all the…well, _everything _goes away. How long could it last, anyway?

But ultimately, it's too chilly to wait outside for life to return to normal. I might be insane, but at least inside there's coffee.

"It was no mere dream," Fenris greets me, expression thunderous. "It was all over your face. What did you see?"

_Jeez, am I that transparent? _"And a good fucking morning to you too," I snap back. "Here, I brought you some toast." I take full advantage of the split second it takes him to reflexively catch the Styrofoam container I shove at him. "I saw Merrill."

Scooter doesn't waste one heartbeat scarfing down the limp toast that drops to the floor as Fenris stares at me. I am flawed and petty enough to _really _enjoy his dumbstruck expression. "Merrill," he repeats slowly.

"Merrill," I confirm, claiming my usual spot on the kitchen counter.

"The witch was _here_?"

"Well, technically she was _there_, but yes, that is the general picture. Hope she got help—she was bleeding pretty profusely when she winked out of existence."

"She was here _and _she was using her filthy magic?"

"I don't know about filthy—her blood actually looked rather healthy as it was dripping all over my living room floor."

"She must have said something—what did she want?"

"Hard to say—she only got as far as 'hello' before she started slicing her arm. Oh, and something about 'can't keep it open.' Mean anything to you?"

"Why should it? Magic, magic, and more _fucking blood magic! _It seems I can't escape it even here!"

We are a study in contrasts. As he gets sharper and more agitated, begins pacing the length of the cramped kitchen, I become smaller, more _still_, and considerably more flippant. We could make a killing in political arguments, with the ways we're pushing each other's buttons without really addressing the larger issue: _now what? _ It only serves to stoke his temper higher; his markings begin to glow through the thin cotton of his borrowed t-shirt as he gives my cabinets a venomous kick. He braces his palms against the counter's edge and just…_holds _there, shoulders hunched and head bowed. "You said I was free," he rasps. "But how can that be? If that—that _foolish _witch can find me, so can others. _Danarius _can find me. How is _that _freedom?"

Remorse and conscience squeeze the breath from my lungs and make my eyes feel hot with tears that refuse to fall. I shouldn't have needled him so. "We'll figure this out, Fenris," I say softly. "One way or another, I _promise _you, we'll figure it out. Together." I smirk at him as he looks at me sideways. "I can't promise I'll always be _serious _and _broody _about it, but you'll never have to deal with this by yourself."

"Lucky me," he chuckles mirthlessly. "You remind me of her, you know."

"Who?"

"Hawke."

I don't want it to happen, but it does. I feel the tips of my ears burn with pleasure as I slide off the counter and attempt to busy my hands with something. I try to get us back on track. "In the meantime, it seems like an excellent time to be _not here _for a few days."

"Running again," he spits with emphatic distaste. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I promise it'll be worth it. How do you feel about Thanksgiving?"


	12. In pursuit of happiness

"So let me be sure I understand this: roughly four hundred years ago, religious fugitives fled their homeland, sailed across the sea, and landed here."

"So far, so good."

"And they were only able to survive through the good offices of the native tribes."

"That's right."

"And they celebrated their friendship with a feast."

"Yup!"

"And this feast is remembered today, and celebrated with a parade, gluttony, and a sport called football?"

"Precisely."

Fenris stares at the highway, stretching indefinitely in front of us. His brow is furrowed in thought as he digests my bare bones version of the objectively bizarre tradition. Cunning readers will notice I carefully omitted the intervening four centuries of displacement, exploitation, and genocide—no need to complicate things just yet. I'll have enough on my hands trying to explain the myriad pop culture icons that show up during the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade.

"Your people are strange," he decides.

_Oh honey, if you only knew. _"What about Thedan holidays?" I ask curiously. "I mean, what do you celebrate in Kirkwall?"

"Martyrdom and oppression, mostly. Can we return to the problem at hand, perhaps?"

"Sorry. So what do we know? We know you and Hawke got ambushed a week ago and something went wrong. That last thing you remember—"

"Lightning, and then your living room."

"Right."

"And you were in the bathroom, because the storm frightened you, so you didn't see what happened."

"No—so, so far the storm—specifically, the lightning—is the only common link we've got between what you last remember before and after the ambush. That doesn't tell us why or how you ended up in _my _living room; it's highly unlikely that there was only one storm happening in the entire world that night."

"In essence, we know nothing." He sighs—an explosive sound full of frustration. "Tell me again of your vision—"

"_Dream_."

One dark eyebrow wings toward his hairline in obvious skepticism. "To borrow one of your phrases, whatever helps you sleep at night. Tell me again of your 'dream' of Merrill. Leave nothing out."

It's my turn to let out a small hurricane of frustration. It's going to be a very long trip if I have to spend the next four hours rehashing my dream (_I don't give a crap what he says about visions and magic; the thing was just a damn dream_) over and over again for his dissection. "Like I told you yesterday, and the day before that: I was having coffee in the kitchen, and I heard her speak to me. I didn't think it was real—not until she spoke again and starting cutting her arm open. She said, 'I can't keep it open', and then…she just wasn't there anymore." I'm barely resisting the urge to bang my head against the steering wheel.

"And you knew nothing of anything amiss before the witch spoke to you?" he demands. Again.

I'm opening my mouth to tell him no (_and to give him a Thanksgiving helping of a piece of my mind_) but then I remember something. "It—I felt like I was standing on a beach. I could hear the ocean, seagulls. I could _smell _it. I didn't think anything of it; I thought it was just part of the music Helena had put on for me. But you can't smell music."

"Indeed you can't," he agrees absentmindedly. He folds his hands together and rests his chin on them, eyes full of thoughts and theories. For a few minutes, the only sound in the car is that of Scooter gnawing contentedly on a rawhide bone. It's difficult to tell who is happier to be in the car: her, or Fenris. Frustrated, lost, and angry that even in the Lone Star State, he can't seem to leave Kirkwall behind, he can't keep the occasional smile off his lips whenever he glances out the window to see the entire world rushing by at seventy miles per hour (_oh fine, more like eighty_).

Every ounce of my concentration is dedicated to _ignoring _the silly little flutter that stirs about the air in my chest every time I see that _smile_. "So—so we're still operating under the assumption that, disregarding the specific mechanism of _how_, you ended up in my living room by accident."

"Why are you assuming that?" he asks; it's obvious from his tone that he disagrees. Vehemently. "_I_ assumed I'd been sent here purposefully."

"By whom?" I counter. In my heart, I'm an academic, first and foremost. _This _is what I live for: arguing—_discussing_—it thrills me in a way that almost nothing else does. "And to what end? And why assume you were _sent_? Perhaps you were _brought _here."

"If what you say about magic is true, then no one here is capable of that kind of power," he asserts. "It's clear Danarius must have sent me here."

"If that's true, then where is he? Why hasn't he come after you? Why send you to me? If Sir St-Bastardville _did _send you here—frankly, it's _sloppy_. It's sloppy spellwork. He left too much to chance, and from what you say about him, that's not his style. So what are we left with?"

I deflate a bit when he doesn't notice my whimsical nickname for his former master (_"fuck-head" seemed excessive_); his brow only furrows as he retreats deeper into the ways of thinking that have kept him one step ahead of recapture for the past few years. "Perhaps he is not as powerful as I thought," he murmurs, and there is an incredulous undertone to his soft voice that says the thought has never occurred to him before.

"Then what the hell are you worried about?"

He stares blankly into my broad grin; I can't help feeling like we're finally on the same page. "I—I don't know," he breathes. It's like I'm witnessing someone achieve nirvana—I watch as he realizes the oceans of possibilities now open to him. "What if—what if you're _right?"_

I smirk in satisfaction. "Either _I'm _right, and you ended up here through a freak accident. Or," I continue, "_you're _right, and Master McFuckwad sent you here, but without knowing what the hell he was doing, and if he comes for you, we'll go to town on his head with a baseball bat, easy peasy. I got ten bucks says you don't even have to use your markings."

He tilts his head speculatively. "That sounds like a bet."

"It _is _a bet." _Shit, he's smiling again._

Thanksgiving dinner will just be icing on the cake, after this. I spend four hours with a man who has realized, probably for the first time _ever,_ that he can do _anything_. Slippery slopes and edges of maps aside, I am honored to be a part of this moment.

I crash-land back in fluttering reality as his eyes spark with heat, and he gives me a cocky twist of his lips that is part challenge, part flirtation. "You're on."


	13. Mother knows best

**AN: **This was going to be longer, but...it seemed right to stop it where it stops.

Awesome reviewer awards go to **DKAllayna** and **pwny5153** for dropping me a line last chapter. Don't go away; more holiday hijinks coming up!

* * *

><p>We skate into my mother's driveway scarce seconds ahead of holiday-rush hour traffic. Scooter is already standing up in the back seat, tail swishing frantically back and forth as she recognizes the place by scent. The garage door is thrown open in cheerful invitation; you'd think the house didn't even have a front door, it's used so infrequently. One thing I love about holidays is I can tell who's already here by the cars, neatly and creatively arranged Tetris-style in the linear driveway: my mother's soccer-mom mini-van, Dad's pick-up, Helena's blue wind-up toy of indeterminate make and model, and now, my little sedan (<em>it's a toss-up whose care is more sedate: mine or Mom's<em>) all fit together in the perfect picture of a family getting together for a holiday. It's early yet; by tonight, the driveway and the street beyond it will be a parking lot as relatives and friends trickle in from all parts of the country, all walks of life. And tomorrow, we'll clog the highway as to Grandmother's house we go.

Three whole days of nothing but _people_. This is going to be a _blast. _

"Listen, Fenris—I should probably warn you about something." I shift nervously in my seat as he lifts a curious eyebrow. "My family—they're very into _touching._ Hugging, shaking hands, pounding on the back, you get the idea."

He regards me stone-faced for several tense moments. "And why do you feel you have to warn me?" he asks, too politely to be merely curious.

I can't meet his eyes. Already I feel like I've overstepped some hidden barrier, crossed some line I didn't see until it was too late. "I just—I didn't want them to surprise you with it. My brother's bear-hugs are known to be lethal," I add, for levity's sake.

He makes some non-committal noise and fixes his gaze on a point somewhere above the bumper Helena's car, parked in front of us. "Have no fear," he finally clips out (_crap, I think that means he's annoyed_), "I'm sufficiently well-versed in etiquette to know that it's bad form to eviscerate one's hosts."

"I must have missed that chapter in _Emily Post_," I retort, though my sarcasm lacks its usual bite on account of I think I just pissed him off. "I'm also going to be lying my ass off about how I know you, and one or two other fuzzy details, so just—"

"Stand there and look appealing?" His eyes flash dangerously, as though spoiling for a fight. "Why not tell them the truth? They're your family, aren't they?"

"Sure, we'll just casually bring it up over dessert. 'Mom, Dad, this is Fenris. He dropped in out of nowhere out of a video game universe and is crashing with me. And boy howdy you should see what he can do with his fist!'" I match him glare for withering glare, out of patience and out of time: I can see my mother hovering in the garage's intereior, practically _bouncing _as she waits impatiently for me to get out of the car. "I told the truth once, and that was enough of an adventure. Let's just stick to the lies, huh? It's not like you're staying long enough for the truth to make a difference."

As parting shots go, it maybe hits a little below the belt, because he recoils as though I've slapped him. Tension simmers between us as we stare each other down. He looks away first, but it's a hollow victory. He retreats behind his inscrutable elven features (_and how am I going to explain THOSE, I ask you?_) and without another word, slides out of the car, as smoothly as though he'd been doing it all his life. Scooter follows, oblivious, and ecstatic at the prospect of unrestricted access to a backyard full of real live grass.

It really is amazing how many thoughts can cross my mind in the time it takes to open my door, shimmy out, and close it again. _This is nuts. We'll never get away with this. Do I look okay? Does HE look okay? He's still wearing Charlie's clothes. What will everyone think of him? Why do I care? What's for dinner?_ _Hope it's not fish—I KNOW he doesn't like fish_—

All thoughts are cut off abruptly as Mom throws her arms around me and draws me in, and I'm officially _home_. I sag into her embrace, letting the warm scents of cooking and the faint, alcoholic tang of cheap white wine wash over me. For a crazy half-second, I'm seven years old again, and I have to remind myself that just because I thought she could solve ANYTHING back then doesn't mean she actually can. Still, I have to fight hard against the urge to just break down and tell her _everything_. And if I hold on just a fraction of a second longer, squeeze a bit harder than she expects, hey. Maybe I'm just glad to be home.

Scooter prances around our feet as we break away. Mom pats my cheeks, flutters her hands around my shoulders and looks me up and down for any obvious, grievous injury she can fret over. Finding none, she settles for hugging me again. She gives Scooter a token pat on the head before turning her bright blue eyes to Fenris. She doesn't miss a beat—she jumps straight into the juicy parts, having said all she needed to me without using words at all. "And who is this?" she asks, bubbling with curiosity. "And where's Charlie? All Helena told me—the tease—was that you'd decided to spend Thanksgiving here."

I'm all too aware of Fenris's gaze boring holes into the back of my neck. I send a quick prayer skyward to whatever merciful god may be listening. _Let the games begin_. "Mom, this is Fenris. Fenris, this is my mother, Anna Campbell." My plastic smile is both plea and apology as I turn around to motion him forward.

He shocks me by taking my mother's offered hand in a firm, ready grip. I'm so proud of her—Mom only stares at his markings, mouth agape, for a split second before the warm, maternal smile is back. "Welcome!" she gushes, "and come in! Erin, go put Scooter in the back with Shadow and Sammi. Can I offer you anything to drink, Fenris? We've got wine, beer, soda, water, tea…" She's pulling him through the door into the house. He shoots a slightly panicked look over his shoulder at me, even as he helplessly trails in my mother's wake. I can't help but laugh as the door closes behind him, as I grab Scooter's leash and do as my mother bids. _Welcome home, indeed_.

Shadow and Sammi, my mother's two dogs, greet me at the gate. Both are adorned with Thanksgiving-themed bandanas, tied jauntily around their necks in place of collars. I submit to the canine ritual sniffing, grateful for the opportunity to scramble together a _dossier _of lies that will explain who Fenris is. And somewhere in the shuffle, there's bound to be a sticky-note or something that will tell me who Fenris is to _me_.


	14. COMPLICATED AS FUCK is not a FB option

**AN: **Long chapter is long! I want to thank ALL my reviewers (not just the ones on the most recent page): **Taffia, Wynterkiss, teviko, pwny5153, DKAllayna, FeZeTh13, ShadowDmn, **and **HowYouRemindMe.** I may be awful about replying to reviews, but each and every one makes my day, and gives me just one more reason to keep writing (besides, you know, being dragged through Imagination-land by my foot).

A big round of applause for new reviewer **Casey!** Welcome, and thanks for jumping on the plot-bronco bandwagon!

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><p>I can't stay out here forever. The late afternoon sun does nothing to dispel the late November chill that is miles ahead of night. I take it for a moment longer, though, to watch my family welcome Fenris like he's always been a part of their lives. No matter that I may have upset him, I'm glad I warned him about all the touching. He's passed around like hot potato at a slumber party, as Helena takes over the duty of introducing him. He shakes hands and smiles, looks my father in the eye, repeats everyone's names to learn them—I snort to myself as I admit that under circumstances even remotely approaching normal, I'd be <em>proud <em>to bring him home to my family. The dogs remember they know each other and begin to romp through the damp grass, which means my duties as a doggy-parent are ostensibly over. _Play nice, children_.

Mom meets me at the back door with a glass of my favorite red wine. "So the suspense is killing me!" she exclaims as she ushers me into the kitchen. "What happened to Charlie?"

"It's not like you couldn't guess," I evade the question. On paper it's simple enough; I just don't want to go into the four days I missed because I was a pathetic puddle of misery.

"I could, but I want to hear it from you."

I sigh in defeat. "We broke up," I say with a carefully nonchalant shrug. "There, you've heard it from me."

It's too much to hope for that my mother will be satisfied with the mere conclusion. I glance guiltily at Fenris and give the room the sordid lie I gave Helena. It _bothers _me how easy it is; if I still believed in Santa Clause I'd be worried about getting nothing but coal and soap in my stocking. My father looks appropriately outraged at the slight on his daughter's honor; my mother's expression is just shy of sorrowful (_looks like she's not surprised_). Helena's already heard the story—the time for grief is long since passed. "Now tell them about Fenris!" she insists gleefully. "I told them you made me promise not to tell until you got here!"

I shoot my sister a dirty look; she has the grace to look abashed as she ducks her face into her bright pink mixed drink. "I am telling this story _once_," I announce, "at dinner, when everyone's here. I don't want Emmett and Laurie getting a garbled version from Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum over here." I jerk my thumb at Helena and Mom, who, while filled with nothing but the _best _of intentions are some of the family's more notorious gossip queens. Besides, I know from experience that Mom will be too busy doting over my brother's child—her _very first grandchild_—to ask too many questions.

Fenris is impassively observing as the familiar ebb and flow of familial interaction swirls through the kitchen. He meets my eyes over his wineglass (_JESUS I've seen a FISH blink more often than he does_); I may not be able to name the exact non-expression in the harsh jade of his gaze, but I'd put it somewhere in the area of "still pissed". And I know it's on me to mend bridges. "I promised you a tour, right?" I chime, and my voice sounds unnaturally loud. I loop my arm through his (_thankfully not the one holding the wineglass_) and tug him through the oversized galley kitchen. "I should probably show you where you're sleeping, at least." I lead the way to a small guest room off a narrow hallway—though now that Emmett, Helena and I are all out of the house, I guess _all _our old bedrooms are technically guest rooms.

Fenris gently but insistently extricates his arm from mine. "I can see where you learned subtlety, at least," he needles me. But his eyes are smiling. "I take it I'm to sleep here, then?"

Even with night fast approaching, the buttercup-yellow paint makes the room seem brighter and warmer than is typical for a Dallas November. I nod idiotically. "Emmett and his wife get my old room—it's the biggest, next to my parents'. Helena and I will take whichever room you don't." I drop my gaze into my wine. My garnet-colored reflection seems to glare reproachfully at me. _Get on with it_. "Listen, Fenris—what would you like to tell my family? About…everything, I mean."

He stills, eyes sharpening on my face. "I was under the impression I was to let you do the talking," he reminds me, tone formal, posture carefully nonchalant.

"It was," I admit clumsily. "But—well, it's _your _life story we're fabricating. I feel like you should—"

"Lie with you?" he interrupts with a smirk.

The needle on the soundtrack to my life skips and screeches as I hurriedly fast forward past any juvenile urge to turn _that _into an innuendo. I nod. "I should have asked earlier—I'm sorry."

He sets his glass down on the low dresser. Before I know what's happening, both his hands are on my shoulders and he's staring at me with this _look _that rips _into _me, straight to all the places I try to keep hidden most of the time. "All I ever ask," he says seriously, "is that you give me a _choice_." His hands slide away from me as I nod helplessly; it _has _to be my imagination, but I can feel the lyrium in his markings tingle like mint and static wherever his palms press through my sweater. "That said, I think you're right," he continues matter-of-factly (_like he didn't just give me a smoldering, panty-dropping stare, how the fuck does he do that?_). "You know best what your family will believe. I defer to your expert fabrications."

_Let's start with 'We're just friends.' _

I'm saved from my smitten paralysis by a commotion in the kitchen: Emmett and Laurie are here, and they've brought their son Liam. Mom coos and expertly retrieves him from Laurie, who smiles tiredly as she juggles diaper bag, purse, and coats. Helena darts forward with a dirty look at Emmett; "Jesus, don't you have _hands_?" she sneers as she helps Laurie through the kitchen.

Free from the diaper bag and coats, Laurie stands a little straighter, brown eyes glinting with good humor. "Don't mind him—he's useless with most of this stuff anyway. How's business?"

"Dreadful—I _love _it!" Their chatter dies away as they move out of earshot. Emmett has the good sense to realize he might be in trouble later, but first things first. I slump resignedly as I'm scooped into two bear-like arms. It hurts less if you just relax. He squeezes just hard enough to let me know he knows about Charlie before putting me down. "So do I need to break this asshole's legs, or what?" he asks without preamble. One sandy eyebrow lifts (_a move he learned from me, I'll have you know_) as he gives Fenris a speculative once-over. "Nice to see you bouncing back so quickly," he remarks with a smug smile.

"We'll get the full story once we sit down to eat," Mom bustles. "So hurry up and help me set the table."

It's amazing how easily we all fall into the familiar rhythms of childhood. Emmett drops the first glass he grabs out of the counter (_I can tell it was on purpose because the glass was plastic_) and is excused from further duties; Helena and I bicker over who gets the tedious chore of making sure the silverware is set out properly, and Laurie, Campbell by marriage but no less our sister, serenely brings up the rear with neatly-folded napkins and to correct any mistakes. I sink into the feeling, taking refuge in the steady stream of banter that rushes through the house like a fresh breeze as ice clinks into glasses, as iced tea and water are distributed (_and summarily ignored as we all grab the alcoholic beverage of our choice_). Dad fetches a high chair for Liam, who gurgles contentedly and bangs on the tray with sticky palms, just to hear the noise. We all clasp hands as Emmett leads the prayer; Fenris's hand twitches in mine—I put it down to discomfort and give him a quicksilver squeeze in return. _It won't last long, I promise_.

But all formalities and warm fuzzies are, unfortunately, sacrificed on the altar of my family's curiosity. Mom shoots me a significant glare over the salad bowl that needs no translation: time to pay up.

"Right, I promised a story," I begin, and settle in for a monologue that would have turned Shakespeare himself green with envy. One last attempt to keep it brief and to the point, though: "Charlie and I broke up, and Fenris is crashing with me because his roommate kicked him out. The end!"

A wave of protest rises toward the fake-crystal chandelier. "That is not the end!" Mom cries indignantly.

"You still haven't told me I don't need to break Charlie's legs," Emmett points out, with the gleeful menace he must have learned from some Big Brother's Handbook. "Which of course means I'll assume I do."

I sigh in defeat and give them the same story, almost word for word, I gave Helena: Fenris and I met through a local online community, his roommate kicked him out after a fight, and he was staying with me until he could figure something else out; Charlie, being Charlie, assumed I'd been unfaithful, so I broke up with him. I quail under my father's stern disapproval—he is of the opinion that the Internet, whatever its incarnation, is populated by weirdos and rapists. But his ire subsides into grumbling when Mom shoots him one of those _married _looks across the table. "So that's it," I finish. "Hardly worth dispatching my own personal leg-breaker."

"I hope we're not depriving your family of Thanksgiving dinner with you, Fenris," Mom probes. I'm sure she _thinks _she's being subtle.

"Hardly," he answers smoothly. There is a bitter, private joke on his lips as he continues, "I'm an orphan, and my sister and I are estranged. This is actually my first Thanksgiving."

Mom looks like she might cry. Dad looks at his plate, and my siblings exchange troubled glances while I try to look like this is the first I've heard of this obviously traumatizing set of circumstances.

I could kiss my sister-in-law. Laurie lifts her son from his high chair and bounces him on her lap. "Funny, it's Liam's first Thanksgiving too," she jokes breezily. "I'm sure you two will find lots to talk about."

The gloomy silence is broken, and the grilling can continue. "Where're you from, Fenris?" Dad asks. _At least he's direct_.

"I don't remember where I was born and my former m—former _employer_ kept me on the move."

"Army brat?"

"Bodyguard, if I may be candid." No one seems to notice that he's watching my hands very carefully, imitating my grip on the knife and fork almost exactly. "My last contract ended badly. I left when it became apparent my employer could no longer use my skills. And so fate left me here." He raises his glass in a mute toast of appreciation, and his small, secret smile is genuine when six glasses (_and a sippy cup_) return the salute.

Calm. Charming. Polite. _Honest. _He's skating figure-eights around the truth, staying off the thin ice where I keep my lies. It's _masterful_; I don't have to say a word, and I find myself taking mental notes for our repeat performance tomorrow. We're off the hook for now; the rest of dinner passes easily and lightly as Laurie and Emmett keep us entertained with stories about the horrors they've found in Liam's diaper. You wouldn't think that would be acceptable dinner conversation, but I guess everyone makes an exception for the first grandchild.

I _can't stop _glancing at Fenris out the corner of my eye. The Fenris I am familiar with throws full bottles of pricey wine at walls, swears in a language some game developer invented, and is supposed to be Hawke's. The Fenris I know is lethal with a two-handed sword and has abilities most "bodyguards" only dream about. The Fenris I know _lives_ for the moment he can finally be free of Danarius. _That _Fenris accused me of bringing him here by magic, and nearly killed me in a panicked rage. I know _that _Fenris. Kirkwall-Fenris. _Hawke's _Fenris.

I would have laughed in the face of anyone who claimed he could sit through an entire evening with my family—this smiling, laughing, joking Fenris is not something I could have predicted when he dropped out of… _somewhere_. I want to cry as I realize I know _this _Fenris, too. _This _Fenris is a grouch in the mornings, likes sugar in his coffee, but no cream, and likes to toss the Frisbee for my dog. _This _Fenris likes to ride in the car with the windows all the way down, no matter how fast I'm going or how stinging the cold bite of the wind. _This _Fenris, surrounded by strangers, isn't watching the shadows or keeping one eye on the exits. He's watching the baby with a bemused, _fascinated _grin, which only widens as Liam bares his gums back. I know _this _Fenris. I _like _this Fenris. Texas-Fenris.

_My _Fenris.

The world of hurt inside me shudders and yawns open. I could say this is the moment I realize I have a crush on my visitor-who-shouldn't-exist, but honestly? I've known all along; I'm just tired of fighting it. I let go and roll off the edge of the map. I am now in free fall and have no idea what's waiting for me at the bottom.

Dinner winds down and I volunteer to ferry plates into the kitchen. I need air, space. I gulp down the dregs of wine in my glass as water hisses into the deep porcelain sink. I glance at the microwave clock as I wait for the water to heat. 11:11.

I squeeze my eyes shut and cross my fingers.

_I wish I knew what to do_.


	15. Honest is a relative term

"So have you guys done it yet?"

"_Jesus Christ, _Helena! A little tact, maybe? He can probably hear you!"

We're in Emmett's old room, stacked off-center like French toast between the real bed and the trundle. Even though he hasn't used it since he learned how to do laundry, there is still a faint trace of Axe body spray in the air; it clings to the carpet and pops out of dresser drawers if you open them too quickly. Closest to the floor, I wrinkle my nose as far away from the lingering, sweet miasma as I can possibly manage, and try not to sneeze.

"Well, I _know _he can probably hear _you_," Helena retorts snippily. "And I notice that that wasn't a _no_."

"No, we haven't 'done it'," I snap. "We're not going to, and I don't want to."

"Liar," she cackles. "And for God's sake, _why not?_ You're single now, remember?"

Whatever those little pink drinks were, she's never allowed to have any ever again. "I've just broken up with the guy I thought I'd end up marrying one day. I don't think I know _how _to do it with someone new." I'm grateful it's dark. If the light was on, she'd be able to see I wasn't entirely joking.

"You have Elrond's pool boy sleeping on your couch. Who better to…_practice _with?" She giggles lewdly and leans over the edge of the bed. "Seriously, you have _got _to get back in the _game!_" she urges. "You need a fling, and you and Fenris have _great _chemistry. It's all over your faces."

_Great chemistry? Faces? As in…plural? As in…mine AND his? _"He deserves better than to just be my rebound," I murmur, mostly to the pillow.

Helena's silent for a pregnant moment. "Oh, my fucking _gawd_." Light floods the room as she clicks on the bedside lamp. I squint myopically at the pale oval of her face, prepared to swear at her until she takes away the painful brightness. "You're _falling _for him!" she gasps. I will admit I'm a little surprised: rather than delighted at the prospect of new romantic drama unfolding at shotgun-wedding pace, she looks horrified. "Oh, Erin—honey, don't complicate things!"

I raise myself up on my elbows and glare incredulously at her. "So, sex isn't complicated but feelings are?"

She nods, happy we seem to be on the same page and oblivious to my mounting temper. "Just because you don't have to settle for Charlie doesn't mean you should immediately throw all of yourself into someone new."

"Call me old-fashioned, but that's kind of what sex _is_." Then the rest of what she said catches up with me. "Wait, what do you mean, _settle?"_

Her hazy blue eyes skitter away from my sharp green ones as she belatedly fumbles for tact. "I just mean—I never felt like he was the right guy for you," she tries again. "Sure he was funny and nice and a gentleman sometimes, but I never saw you _care_."

"You're saying you think I never loved Charlie." Something inside flash-freezes and I'm suddenly numb from the inside out. I'm _furious_ and _hurt _and that _Inside _place is threatening to swallow me whole, because I'm afraid she's _right_.

She backpedals frantically. "That's not what—I'm sure you _did _love him. In a safe, not-complicated way." She gnaws on her bottom lip, still a little pink from her lipstick. "I don't think it would be like that if you and Fenris got together."

I only barely resist punching in her perfect teeth; I remind myself that she's my _sister, _and I think—_think_—she's probably genuinely worried about me. That doesn't stop me from giving her a granite-hard stare and coldly insisting I need some air. I move like a ghost through the dark house and into the backyard. The dogs slip through the door behind me and into the chilly, damp night. Sammi immediately picks up a soggy tennis ball and spits it out at my feet; I halfheartedly pick it up and toss it, watch Sammi chase after it, black-and-white tail held high as a banner. Shadow and Scooter decide that cold, wet grass is _so _not for them, and slip back inside through the doggy door.

_What if Helena's right? _The unpleasant thought comes back, now that I'm alone and mostly free of distractions. It's true that Charlie and I weren't the perfect couple—I don't believe those exist—but I never once thought we didn't love each other. We both had our faults—he's jealous and paranoid, I'm stubborn and flippant—but I was happy with where we were. I was content.

_Yeah, that's why you're sitting on a cold concrete slab at one in the morning, tossing a slimy tennis ball for a dog smarter than most four-year-olds. _

That's the trouble with arguing with yourself—sometimes you can be _too _honest.

_Would 'content' have been enough, in the long run? _my inner voice continues knowingly. I don't know. And the hard, sad truth is I'm never _going _to know. I'm never going to know if I would have been happy with Charlie, or just happy _enough._ I'm only just now realizing that there might be a small but crucial difference between the two. My legs feel numb from the icy concrete; _warm _and _dry _are beginning to sound like pleasant dreams. But I'm not ready to go in yet; if I stay out here, maybe I can system-shock all these _feelings _into hibernation so I can sleep. I draw my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them. I want so badly to believe that if I squeeze hard enough, I can keep everything inside, where it belongs. But it's squeezing _out_ instead—my throat feels tight, and the dreaded hot, prickling sensation in my eyes is getting harder to ignore. I pull further into myself; I tuck my chin between my chest and my thighs, and wait for it to go away.

The back door opens with a hushed swish of insulation on carpet. "_Venhedis, _woman, why are you out _here?_" Warmth seeps into me on one side as Fenris sits next to me. He drapes a thick blanket around my shoulders and to my surprise, the tight, prickly feeling dissipates somewhat.

I pick my head up and turn to face him. His outline is blurry; the thermal fabric of his borrowed pajamas brushes against my leg as he slides as close as I think he's comfortable with. "Couldn't sleep," I explain, mostly truthfully, and hope he doesn't notice the uncharacteristic thickness in my voice.

His voice is soft and filled with devastating sympathy. "You miss Charlie," he murmurs.

I can't find my voice. I can't find _English_. My entire world dissolves and refocuses on a point between Christmas-green eyes that are in turn focused on me. It would be easy for me to lie, to tell him yes, I miss Charlie, and that's all. "I miss _easy_," I blurt out.

He drops his gaze to his bare feet (_do ALL elves have such long toes?_) and his shoulders hunch guiltily. "I am sorry for my part in the…current complications."

"I'm not," I laugh. "You're the only one I can _talk _to about the 'current complications'." _Well, some of them_, I amend silently.

"I can relate," he snorts. "What does that make us, then?"

"Partners in crime?" I suggest wryly. "Friends, even?" _Anything you want? Shut up, Brain-Erin_.

He looks at me thoughtfully for a long moment, before a small, uncertain smile pulls the corners of his mouth toward his eyes. He extends a hand toward me; the hazy moonlight shimmers blue across his markings. "Friends," he says softly, and it's like he can _taste _the way it sounds.

I touch my frozen palm to his. A shock of mint and static wraps around my arm like ivy, and it's _warm_. I feel like all the cold in the world melts away. I'll never be cold again. I wrap my fingers more firmly around his hand, and we shake on it. "Friends," I echo. All of a sudden, I'm no longer in free-fall.

I'm _flying_.


	16. Morning and other disasters

Morning brings chaos.

It starts with Helena, shaking me awake at some hour most people would consider obscene for a holiday. She's already dressed and coiffed (_how long has she been awake?_). "If you hurry we can grab Fenris and get coffee," she says.

_Coffee and Fenris? Sold. _I wash my face and pull jeans and a sweater over my only-slightly-rumpled t-shirt. Then my sluggish morning-brain catches up to the rest of me, and I realize that if Fenris is to join Helena and me for coffee, _I will have to wake him up._ I shudder and quail at the sight of the door to the middle bedroom, closed for privacy and suddenly as impenetrable as the Great Wall of China. I've seen_ X-Men_; if there is one thing Hugh Jackman taught me, it was _do not wake up a man with a tendency toward traumatic and violent nightmares. _So far, my nocturnal acquaintance with Fenris has been limited to whatever interaction can be conducted through a wall. But I've heard the hide-a-bed squeak and strain as he stirs uneasily, fruitlessly chasing peaceful dreams. And by tacit agreement, we never discuss the times he wakes himself with a panicked shout and a crash of IKEA furniture.

Fenris answers my timid one-knuckle rap with a resentful, pre-coffee glare. I don't take it personally; I'm not thrilled to be awake so early either. What little I can see of him through the narrow crack in the doorway is still in Charlie's borrowed (_maybe pilfered, at this point_) jeans and t-shirt. I'm starting to think he just hasn't taken them off, except to shower. "Coffee time," I greet him. It's as close to an apology for _morning _as he's going to get from me. "Helena and I gonna hit up a place. Wanna come?"

His eyelids flicker with interest and he grunts his assent. He slides his long, narrow feet into a pair of flip-flops on loan from Emmett and shuffles with me to Helena's car. I can see her glance between us, lightning fast and _loaded _with meaning, and I remember with acute clarity I haven't forgiven her for last night. She doesn't seem to notice, though—she's evidently been freebasing coffee grounds because she's practically _vibrating _with all the energy of a born organizer. I swear I can _hear _her thoughts—she's making _lists_ and _timetables, _a plan of attack for the day. Food and different cooking times, and the inevitable emergency trip to the grocery store (_last year we had to go BUY a TURKEY on THANKSGIVING_)—it's all going into the Helena Mental Master Table.

It's barely 8:00 (_fuck, REALLY?_) and I'm already exhausted.

The coffee shop's front door jingles cheerfully as Helena pushes it open. The barista and hostess both greet her by name and we're led to a booth in a corner. I consider myself lucky Helena waits until the coffee actually gets to the table before she starts _talking_. I was right—she pulls a small notepad and a pen out of her purse and starts jotting things down at lightning speed. I know what is required of me: I nod and agree to cook a handful of side dishes (_my green bean casserole is LEGENDARY_), and she's satisfied.

"Okay, now let's talk wardrobe. What is Fenris wearing? He can't show up wearing…_that_." She gestures disdainfully in the general direction of the rumpled castoffs.

Fenris looks like a deer caught between two very powerful pairs of headlights, unsure where to run but knowing he probably should. His eyes flicker between us, stark green against the simple white cup. I try to shake my head vehemently while actually _moving _as little as possible. I must have failed, because his eyes slide back to Helena and he cautiously asks, "What attire is acceptable?"

A feral grin spreads across her face as she scents blood in the water. "We'll find you something while we're out," she assures him as she lays some cash on the table. "Kohl's is open," she informs me, flattening my attempt to steer us away from this fateful direction. "They were advertising it yesterday. We'll be in and out, I promise." She sashays across the shopping center, and only now do I realize she probably _planned _this, as the giant white letters grow even larger with our approach.

"I don't understand," Fenris says to me in an urgent undertone. "What is this place?"

"Hell on earth," I mutter back, flippant and sour. He looks at the plain fake-granite edifice with new trepidation, and I blow a long-suffering sigh through pursed lips. "It's not as dire as that," I'm forced to admit. "It's just a place to shop."

"Shopping I understand," he chuckles quietly, looking relieved. "It was a cherished pastime in Kirkwall."

I fervently wish he didn't have to eat his words so soon—it quickly becomes evident that he has no idea how to shop among the impersonal crowds and the dull roar of a holiday sale. He hunches protectively into himself, hands in his pockets as we trot in Helena's wake. She, at least, knows exactly where she's going: she leads us unerringly through the sea of loud red signs and shoppers arguing over the last pair of merino wool socks to the men's department. Fenris pales as he takes in the rows upon rows of _clothes_. Leaving aside his rather unique physical characteristics, he looks much like any other man in the store.

"Well, you wanted choices," I murmur for his ears alone.

He gives me a black look. "You're laughing at me."

There's no getting around it—I am, a little. "True. But my _advice _to you would be to stick with a dark button down shirt, dark pants, and black shoes you can slide in and out of easily. And stay away from ties."

"Why?"

"Just a guess, but they might remind you of collars."

His eyes narrow angrily at this casual, almost callous mention of the life he's left so far behind him. "You would bring that up _now_?" he demands quietly.

"Don't start with the angry puppy eyes," I groan wearily. "I'm bringing it up because I'd rather have you mad at me _now _than start having a flashback when my sister tries to bully you into one." I grab one off a rack at random and begin to loop it loosely around his neck.

No one notices in the bustle and din. He dodges my advance; in a movement fluid as mercury, one tattooed hand rips the tie from around his neck while the other closes around both my wrists. He jerks me against him. It's not romantic or seductive in the slightest—I'm trapped, plain and simple. I'm too close to him to kick or scratch; he's forced my arms into an angle that makes it impossible to wiggle loose. I can't even (_in theory, anyway_) turn my head enough to bite. _Everything _tingles—not the warm, mint-and-static tickle I'm beginning to recognize; more like the foreboding sensation of sitting on a fire ant hill _right _before the bites start to sting, and I realize that his markings are glowing under the t-shirt. He shudders and seems to come back to himself. The vice-like pressure around my wrist eases, and he shakes me free. Guilt and anger vie for dominance in his face. The tie slips from his numb fingers to the floor, forgotten (_and ugly, now that I'm getting a good look at it_).

_Just when I think he's turning cuddly, this shit keeps happening. _I remember I was supposed to be proving a point, but mostly I feel guilty for pushing him. I pick the tie up and fold it—it gives me time to fumble for an apology, or, failing that, something flippant and amusing about the universally hideous ties that seem to be all that's left. "So the ties get a resounding _no_." _Flippant it is_.

"_Do you have a death wish_?" he hisses furiously. He's put as much space between us as he can without getting caught in the salmon-stream of shopper traffic, and he's glaring at me again.

"_Festis bei umo canavarum,_" I retort with a smirk (_and OH the LOOK on his face is PRICELESS_). "Do you like the black or the navy blue shirt better?"


	17. Bless us, oh Lord, and OH FUCK

**AN: **To everyone who's favorite'd, put this story on alert, and/or left a review, a huge thank you and hope you all have a safe holiday.

* * *

><p>"I feel naked," Fenris confides to me. We're speeding north on the toll road, heading for my grandmother's house in the country. Scooter is standing dutiful vigilance over a casserole dish full of ingredients in the back seat, and I'm keeping one eye on Helena's bumper as she leads the Thanksgiving caravan.<p>

I glance at him out the corner of my eye. Dressed in a fitted navy button-down, black pants, and slip-on shoes cleverly disguised as dress shoes (_that he has already slipped off for the ride up_), he is anything _but _naked. I'm only speaking objectively when I say he looks _good_. The new fabric rustles as he shifts uncomfortably in his seat; his long fingers hover uncertainly over the buttons of his shirt. "Do not mistake me," he adds. "I _am _grateful. I will repay you for these—you have my word."

"Don't worry about it," I answer automatically—we've been having _that _conversation since we left the store. The sight of his long-fingered hands dancing restlessly over the unfamiliar wardrobe—material, pattern, a whole way of _life_—is starting to make _me _nervous. My pulse starts to skip erratically in my chest. Only because big family events make me anxious anyway; it has nothing to do with the errant, filthy paths my overactive imagination has suddenly taken. I'm good at compartmentalizing like that.

_Can't go there. Remember, can't go there. _

In a way, it's been a relief to finally admit my feelings for Fenris. Now, they're a _problem_. _Problems_ go in one of two categories: those I can solve, and those I can't. Those I can't solve, I ignore, or table until a solution becomes apparent. I can't _solve _the way I feel, so what's left? Acknowledge and move on. Energy that until now had been devoted to remaining in denial will now be free; I can concentrate on the thousands of _other _Fenris-centric _problems_ (_the how's and why's of his very existence have been keeping me up at night_), not to mention the end-of-semester papers, presentations, a status check on thesis research, and my annual New Year's resolution to cut back on my caffeine intake (_three guesses on how well that's gone THIS year_).

I steal another glance from the corner of my eye. It's a rare, still moment—he's finally submitted to the chill bite of the wind and rolled the windows up. The blue-white lines of his markings disappear into his clothes, set off by the dark colors. I trace their paths with my eyes, up and down his fingers and toes, down the stubble-less column of his neck. I squeeze my steering wheel against an urge to reach out and brush his hair out of his eyes as he turns his head to watch North Texas whiz by the window.

"You clean up good," I offer awkwardly. "I'm sorry I can't say the same about the scenery." I cast a rueful smile out my own window. Flat and gray on all sides—must be autumn.

A smile flashes brightly through his eyes. "I like it," he says mildly. "And I'm looking forward to meeting more of your family."

"Brace yourself," I chuckle, "because there are a _lot _of us."

I don't know how right I am until we arrive: Gran's front lawn is already a parking lot when we pull in at noon. Scooter goes into exile with the rest of the Campbell canines, in the three-stall barn behind the main house. I don't spare but a moment to feel sorry for her: everyone in attendance will sneak out here with morsels of turkey and stuffing, so it's not like she's going to starve. Fenris shadows me as I weave a path through the cars to the front door. Once inside, I will belong to the chaos. The culinary emergencies, the meltdowns—it's all waiting for me within the sturdy, red-brick walls. Every drama, every flaw plays out with food as a language, with strangers wearing familiar faces. I take a deep breath to brace myself, and nudge the door open.

I could be blindfolded and I would still know where I was. No one's noticed we've come in yet; I savor the moment and just _feel_: the warm, butter-herb smell of turkey and stuffing, the sweetness of pies fresh out of the oven, the busy hen-house chatter of women in the kitchen, and the whoop and roar of men as they watch something exciting happen during the football game broadcasted in the nearby sitting room. I'm _home_, as much here as I am at Mom's, and I let the safety and comfort of it wrap around me like a blanket.

I nearly trip over baby Liam, crawling determinedly for worlds yet unexplored and followed by a harried-looking younger cousin. Tara has evidently been given baby-sitting duty; at ten, she is the youngest child of my youngest uncle's youngest marriage. She's lucky enough to have inherited the Campbell blue eyes and deep brown hair; once she's past the knees-and-elbows awkwardness of adolescence she'll likely be yet another willowy beauty that graces the Campbell family tree. For now, however, she laboriously tries to simultaneously corral and lift her infant cousin (_second cousin? I never remember how that works_) out of harm's way. "Sorry, Erin," she gasps, and grimaces with deep disgust as Liam swirls a slobbery palm over her cheek. "Aunt Anna said to tell you they're saving you oven space, and Helena said to hurry the f-word up."

Fenris obligingly takes the dish full of green bean casserole ingredients; Tara grins in relief as I lift Liam's weight off of her. "Helena actually said f-word?" I ask in amusement.

"No, she said the actual f-word, but I'll get in trouble if _I _say it."

I bounce Liam on my hip as I carry him into the heart of the men's domain and deposit him in Emmett's lap. My brother looks mildly surprised to find his wayward offspring suddenly and happily drooling on his khakis, but he grins at the top of the downy head with unmistakable fatherly pride. "Never too young to learn the game," he says with mock solemnity. He switches gears and clasps hands with Fenris—I wonder if he notices the way the lyrium tingles, or if it's just me. "Glad you could make it, man. Lemme grab you a seat and a beer—you a football fan? We're Packers people, when we're here—"

It's a ritual, as recognizable as a mass and just as meaningful. I catch Emmett's eye and mouth _Thank you_. He winks back and gives me a thumbs-up as he introduces Fenris to the circle of men gathered around the football game. I can't help feeling we've come a long way, and yet not very far at all, from the days when we'd kill to eat and gather around a bonfire (_yikes, morbid much?_).

"Who _is _that?" Tara wonders breathlessly. "Is he your new boyfriend?"

I sigh inwardly at the word "new"—it appears that the break-up part of the entire saga has made the rounds. "No, he's just a friend-friend. And I want you to tell that to everyone who asks." I start chopping mushrooms and onions for the green bean casserole and set a pan of butter heating on the stove. "Where's Gran? I don't see her holding court."

"She's downstairs," Helena puts in from across the kitchen. She darts closer, almost on _fire _with _news_. "Get this—she's made a _friend_!"

This should not be news, let alone _news_, except for the fact that at eighty-one, our grandmother's only contact with the outside world is the cleaning lady that comes once a week. I feel a twinge near my heart as I think of my grandfather and how much Gran obviously _needed _him, just to have someone else to _think _with. "I don't see how they're connected," I say blandly, knowing she'll tell me.

"Remember ages ago when Dad was complaining she didn't get out enough?" Helena helpfully gives my onions a stir. "Apparently, she finally took it to heart and started going up to the retirement home to play bridge. She took a shine to one of her fellow old biddies and invited her to our _family_ Thanksgiving! They set up a card table in the basement and they've been playing bridge all morning."

This is sufficiently out of character for our grandmother to arouse even my reluctant interest. "So do we _know _anything about this 'old biddy'?" I ask. "Like her name?"

"Frances something—she's really classy." Helena dumps the green beans and fresh mushroom sauce into the casserole dish and I garnish with the canned fried onions before sliding it into the oven. "You'd better take Fenris and go say hello."

At the sound of his name, Fenris peels himself away from the football game and follows me out of the kitchen. "This sport is very confusing," he complains quietly. The aged carpet squeaks under our feet as we take the stairs one at a time. "And it doesn't seem to have any rules."

"I don't get it either," I reassure him. "It's a bunch of guys in tight pants chasing around an inflated pig bladder—Happy Thanksgiving, Gran!"

Gran's visitor looks up first. Her earrings brush the shoulders of her deep burgundy pantsuit. Her snow-white hair is swept into a neat coil, offset by an incongruously silly turkey-feather headdress. From the exact wrong angle, it looks like horns. Her yellow eyes narrow, and a predatory smile curls her thin lips upward as Fenris and I stop dead.

"Well, _well_," she purrs, in a voice as ancient and cold as snow-tipped mountains, "what have we here?"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Merry Christmas! :D


	18. Fear is the mindkiller

**AN: **I'd be lying if I said I'm sorry for leaving you guys with a cliffhanger. I hope you all had an excellent holiday; I know I did. And just because I haven't mentioned it in a while, remember Bioware owns Fenris and our very own...well, you know who I mean. Enjoy!

And for anyone who hasn't yet, be sure to check out **Fenris and Scooter **on DeviantArt, drawn by our very own **Taffia**!

* * *

><p>I feel like I spend an eternity in the frozen place between one heartbeat and the next. My entire being skips like a needle on a record. I choke on the air in my lungs; my warm Thanksgiving pleasantries die and cool to ashes in my mouth. I've flat-lined. I'm now a vegetable.<p>

And then everything starts working again.

At first, all I want to do is laugh. My grandmother is playing bridge with Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds and (_probably_) eater of babies. It's _ridiculous_. Where did this _hag_ even learn how to _play _bridge? Is it a common pastime in the Korcari Wilds, between chomping on darkspawn and taking Chasind consorts and grooming your (_stolen?_) offspring to be the next _you_? Who even has time for cards with all that?

Then I remember who she _is_, and the shaking starts. I hate it—I _hate _that I show weakness, that I show fear. I want to throw up. I want to run. I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hide. I want to take back everything about this impossible week (_two weeks, maybe?_) and go back to my _life_. My grandmother is playing bridge with Flemeth, Witch of the Wilds, and _has no idea how much danger she's in_. I should jump and wave my arms around. I _need to warn her_. I have to warn _everyone_. But the words won't come. I can't squeeze them past the lump of terror in my throat.

Gran looks up from the fan of cards in her hand, frowning at me. "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?" she snips reproachfully. Her eyes find Fenris, standing behind me, and her frown deepens. "And your…_friend_," she adds, voice sticky with innuendo and disapproval as her gaze lingers on the markings.

_You first._

Panic makes you do strange things. I paste on a schoolgirl smile and schoolgirl good manners. "I'm Erin, and this is Fenris. I'm very pleased to meet you."

I'm shaking hands with the Witch of the Wilds on Thanksgiving Day.

I'm _shaking hands. _With _the Witch of the Wilds_. On _Thanksgiving Day._

A cold, reptilian smirk creeps across her lined features. "Likewise. You may call me Frances." Her feral eyes rip into me, and her smirk widens. "Silly things, names. Why not simply be as we are?"

_She knows I know. Jesus, Mary and angels, SHE KNOWS I KNOW OH GOD WHAT DO I DO—_

There is a ghost of sensation on the back of my hand, and suddenly I feel a tingle of icy mint and static. Fenris is holding the back of his hand against mine. And I remember I am not alone.

I'm _not alone_. "F-Fenris," I stammer, "this is my grandmother, Ivy Campbell."

He nods courteously but doesn't extend his hand. I don't blame him, and I don't care that my grandmother sniffs tellingly at his breach of good form. If I stay here among this lunacy any longer I'm going to drop into the fetal position and weep. I inch my foot towards the staircase, prepared to bolt. "I won't keep you from your card game, ladies. I need to check on my casserole anyway. Don't want it to burn. It was lovely to meet you…_Frances_."

She blinks lazily, her secretive smile never wavering. "I don't mind a few charred edges," she chuckles with casual menace.

I trip on the bottom stair; Fenris has to steer me back toward the kitchen by my elbow. "Not here," he hisses urgently. "We must speak privately."

"_Thank _you, Captain Obvious," I snap, on the edge of hysterics. I feel as though the air in my lungs is snagged on broken glass; it catches as I try to drag it in and out of my body. The only thing keeping me upright is Fenris's grip on my arm. "The barn. We can talk in the barn." I lead the way through the crowded kitchen (_miraculously, no one notices us_) and out the back door.

An entourage of wagging tails and wet noses greets us as we slide the door open. I collapse onto the hay-and-dirt floor and throw my arms around Scooter's neck. I sob into her fur. "That—"

"I know," Fenris growls.

"_That was—_"

"I _know_." He's kicked off his shoes and is pacing furiously, kicking up dust as he goes back and forth. He looks like a caged animal as he rakes a bare hand through his hair, as he clenches his fists against the hilt of a sword that isn't there. I squeeze my eyes shut against the memory of black spikes and the electric blue of his markings diving into me. No matter that he is dressed like he belongs here, no matter that he smells like coffee and men's Suave, this is the Fenris fresh from Kirkwall.

And the worst part of it is I'm actually _relieved_. Trapped, frustrated, and full of fear, he is still more _capable _than anyone I know. I _want _him here; I _want _him to tell me what to do, how to _deal_. But he doesn't seem to realize I'm still here. He's _running_, even though he's pacing the length of the barn. He's left me far behind.

With _her_.

"Fenris, that was _Flemeth_," I hiccup, scrubbing the tears off my cheeks. _Don't leave me here, _I beg silently.

"I _KNOW_," he shouts, glaring at me. "What do you want to do about it? She shouldn't even be here!"

"We have to warn everyone," I insist. "She's _dangerous_—she could poison everyone, or-or turn them into frogs, or—"

Fight or flight—it's an instinct we all have, however diluted. This must be what it feels like, to be the first deer in a herd to scent a hunter. The word is passed through the herd, through the entire forest, and the herd flees for safety.

I scramble for the door. My _family _is in there—I _can't _leave them defenseless, with no warning at all. My stomach roils with fear and determination as I realize that I am the _only_ defense they have. Against _the Witch of the Wilds_.

Fenris blocks my way. "No," he rumbles.

"_Get out of my way,_" I hiss back. "That's my _family_—you might not care but I sure as hell do." I step to the side, trying to get around him.

He steps with me, holding one iron-strong arm around the front of my shoulders. I shove against it, growing angrier and angrier. "_Move!_" I shriek. I scrape my feet against the barn floor, trying to shove past. "You _ingrate_! Let me go! If you're not going to help, _move!_"

A slight movement. A shift in pressure. A touch against my ankle, and suddenly my cheek is pressed into the dirt and hay. I gasp in against the dust, and the extra weight leaning on me. I struggle weakly—I'm not built for a wrestling match, and both Fenris and I know it. He waits, with astonishing patience, for me to tire myself out. "Enough," he murmurs with finality. "You're frightened, and you're angry. Neither will help you, _or _your family. Do I have your attention?"

"_Fuck you_," I spit, twisting against his grip. My arm is free; I try to get enough leverage to drive my elbow into any part of him I can reach.

He shifts slightly; I feel his forearm press against my back and my momentary advantage disappears. "_Stop it_," he commands. "I cannot help you unless you calm down. Do I have. Your. Attention?" he repeats.

"Yes," I answer grudgingly. "You're _heavy_—I can't breathe."

Cautiously, as though he would rather not, Fenris eases his weight off of me and helps me to my feet. What a fucking gentleman. "We can tell your family _nothing_."

"Why the fuck not?" I demand. "Or didn't you _see _her?"

"We can tell your family nothing," he explains with exaggerated patience, "because to do so means we would have to reveal _everything else_. Who I really am, where I am really from. How I really arrived. Is this something you are prepared to do?"

I refuse to meet his eyes. He's _right_, and I _hate _it. To think I actually _wanted _him to take charge. "No," I admit, _burning _with resentment and fury. "So what do we do?"

He rakes a hand through his hair again—it's all too easy to picture him back in his armor, with a broadsword strapped to his back. He blows a loud, frustrated sigh through his nose and seems to slump in defeat. "We eat dinner," he decides, "and stay silent until we can discern what she wants."

I want to rail against the injustice of doing _nothing_. But I asked, and he answered. And he's _right_. I jerk my chin in a nod and pull the barn door open. Without turning to look at him I slip into my car and rummage in my trunk.

"What are you doing?" Fenris asks impatiently.

"Gearing up for battle." I've found what I'm looking for. I pull the top off a large shoebox and pull the knee-high boots out of their packaging. I slide my feet out of my wedge heels and start zipping them into the soft, stiletto-heeled leather. "If I'm going to sit down to Thanksgiving dinner with fucking _Flemeth_," I explain as I apply a fresh coat of lip gloss, "I'm going to do it in shoes that make me feel invincible."


	19. I don't have a fairy godmother

I'm Lara Croft. I'm Catwoman. I'm Sarah Connor.

_I am Woman. Hear me roar._

My confident swagger turns into a wobble as Flemeth follows Gran out of the basement. Her dragon's eyes crinkle at the corners as they settle on me and Fenris. I shrink instinctively away from the ancient, mocking smile in her hungry gaze—between fight and flight, I'll take flight every time.

Tragically, it is not an option. Fenris's hand pushes against the small of my back, preventing any further retreat. "Steady," he murmurs. "If I can go shopping, you can manage this."

The static in his touch makes my shirt cling to my skin. I twitch away from him, even if I am grateful for the fleeting comfort. "Some vote of confidence," I joke shakily. I keep Flemeth in the corner of my eye as Helena and I set the table, as the cranberries and stuffing are spooned into Gran's fine, formal china. And in the center of this culinary pageant is the turkey, browned and buttered to perfection. I feel like a marionette; my body moves without my conscious direction as I clasp Fenris's hand in prayer, as we sit and begin to eat.

I just wish I knew who is pulling the strings.

"Is your family out of town, Frances?" Mom asks quizzically.

"Oh, I have only the one daughter," Flemeth answers (_did she just _wink _at me?_), "and who knows what _she's _up to these days."

Fenris presses his knee against mine in mute warning as I gag on my wine. "Steady," he whispers again, so quietly I'm _almost _positive I'm the only who hears him. I can't be too sure, though, what with Flemeth's Cheshire-Cat smirk constantly shimmering on and off her face.

"What of your daughters, Anna?" Flemeth asks genially. Her expression is unfathomable as her eyes slide away from Helena and rest on me.

"We're nothing special," Helena answers cheerfully. "I'm the event planner for a music club downtown, and Erin's so obsessed with school she's gone back for more."

"Indeed?" Flemeth perches her chin on folded hands, and her gaze sharpens. "Looking for something, girl?"

"Something to make me famous," I quip. "Failing that, answers."

"You think you'll find them between walls and pages, I suppose," she snorts dismissively.

"Well, I haven't found them out here," I retort, patience razor-thin and waning fast. There is an entire layer of meaning to which only two people at this table have access—some of it, I don't think even Fenris knows. I've never felt so alone in my life. I feel like a kitten staring down a saber-toothed cat; all I can do is keep my smile in place and try not to blink.

_Steady. _

I tighten my grip on the antique silver flatware and drop my eyes to my dinner. The turkey is divine, and my green bean casserole is to die for (_if I do say so myself_). Conversation flows back and forth over the white linen tablecloth; I have to explain my thesis topic five or six times as different relatives clue in at different times, and _everyone_—even the people who never met him—wants to hear about Charlie. Gossip is a family pastime; Thanksgiving's just the excuse.

And it's not helping me get anywhere near finding out why Flemeth's _here. _

_Okay, let's play this cool. Think smooth thoughts—think subtle. Why am I thinking about peanut butter? Focus, Erin! This is a game-changer, and your whole family is counting on you whether they know it or not. Subtle and smooth, shaken, not stirred. Subtle and smooth—_

"So how did you end up in the Lone Star State…_Frances?_"

Ugh. I've seen more subtlety from a stripper.

Flemeth smiles blandly down the table. "I like to keep my foot in the door in a variety of places," she answers (_without really saying anything at all_). I feel a cold trickle of fear make its merry way down my spine—she knows this intrigue, and she's had a _lot _more time to play this game than I have. Her thin-lipped smile says she'll play along. It's anyone's guess for how long. Or what she'll do when she tires of humoring me.

"So where does the Campbell Thanksgiving feast rank on the list?" I ask carefully. _What do you __**want**__?_

"For now, there is no place I'd rather be. This is a truly excellent meal. And in such…_interesting _company." Flemeth lifts her glass to her eyebrow in a small, mocking toast, as her gaze trails over Fenris's markings.

Fenris stiffens angrily. My boot hugs my calf as I press my leg more forcefully against his; he presses back so hard I can feel the back of the zipper dig into my skin. His lips twist in a short, sharp smile that is meant for only me (_I think I may faint_). His hand brushes against mine, and the cold fear thaws slightly. In some dark, forgotten corner of my brain, I wonder if this small exchange of touch helps him as much as it helps me. I hope it does.

_Steady_.

It's time to change tactics: we won't get what we want over turkey and pie. My family is (_finally_) starting to clue in that something isn't quite right, but that's probably more due to _my _aberrant behavior than any doing of Flemeth's. If Fenris and I are to get answers, we're going to have to corner her. Alone.

Won't _that _be fun.

Fenris is kicking me under the table in an effort to get me to continue my futile attempt at interrogation. I reflect on the egregious oversight on the part of evolution that left humans (_and their elfin cousins_) without the advantage of telepathic communication and kick back. Which, naturally, means he kicks even harder. I unfortunately have no way to communicate that as partners, we are changing strategies.

I notice my father and one or two of my uncles pushing away from the table, stretching their distended stomachs in time-honored, engorged fashion. Most of the plates are empty (_little Tara is still listlessly picking the skin off her turkey and baby Liam's is smeared creatively all over his high chair. And his face_), and I probably won't get another chance. I give Fenris a nudge with my elbow, and he follows suit as I start clearing the table.

"_Will you knock it off?_" I hiss under cover of the faucet pouring into Gran's stainless steel sink. Cold gravy melts off the plates under the influence of hot soapy water. I'm scrubbing harder than is generally recommended for the proper treatment of white-gold filigree, but I still haven't forgiven him for being…well, _him_. "You've _crippled _me!"

He snorts impatiently as he munches on Liam's abandoned dinner roll. I hope he gets baby-cooties. "I've bruised you, at worst. You're too soft." He tosses the slobbery end of the roll into the garbage and rinses his hands. "More to the point, I thought the plan was to question her. Why did you stop?"

"Because it wasn't working—she isn't going to tell us anything over pie and coffee."

"How do you know she'll tell us anything at all?"

"I don't," I admit. I rub my sore ankle with the top of my other foot. "But I can't do this in front of my family. I can't—" My voice shivers and breaks as I grind decaf for dessert coffee (_bloody waste_). Angrily I scrub my cheek against my sweater; this business of crying at the drop of a hat has got to stop or we'll never get anything done. I take several deep breaths as I dump the grounds into the filter and fill the reservoir. "I'll sit still for lessons in double-talk and subtlety if you let me do this my way," I joke feebly.

"I want that in writing," he smiles back. He takes great care not to touch my skin as he curls his palms over my shoulders and turns me toward him. "We'll figure this out—isn't that what you always tell me?"

"Am I interrupting?"

We both whirl toward the sound of Flemeth's voice. She's standing in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen, her keen gaze swinging between our faces like a pendulum. I doubt she cares whether she's interrupting or not. "Would you two chickadees care to walk an old woman to her car?" she asks. Her tone makes it a request; the sharpness in her yellow-green eyes makes it a command. What can we poor foolish mortals do but follow? The front door clicks shut behind us, and we're alone with the Witch of the Wilds. This is different from getting the Witch of the Wilds alone—the latter, had I succeeded, would have been on my terms. With just a slight shift in syntax, she has the advantage.

"I know you," she muses, eyes on Fenris. He holds himself _very _still as her eyes linger on the markings, traces their silver-blue paths across his palms. "_Yes…_you're the clever lad from Sundermount. The one with the invisible chains."

Fenris clenches his fists at his sides. "I wear no chains," he snarls insistently. Tension boils hotly off of him, stretches the fabric of his shirt across his shoulders. He has never looked more like the wolf he was named for as he glares hatefully into Flemeth's wizened visage.

Her eyebrows twitch upward with the omniscient amusement gods reserve for the observation of ants. "Indeed," she hums skeptically. And then her focus shifts to me. The hairs on the back of my neck stand to quivering attention as she gives me a long once-over, from reddish-brown split ends to the tips of my boots. Fenris shifts his stance to the left, shielding me from her dispassionate scrutiny. She pays as much attention to him as she would to a clear vinyl shower curtain. "And just who might _you _be?" she asks thoughtfully.

"I'm Ivy Campbell's granddaughter," I remind her sarcastically. "We just met." I twist out of Fenris's protective silhouette and toss my hair. I picture haughty debutantes, no-nonsense cowgirls, every femme fatale ever and try to be _all _of them. I'm back to that kitten-saber-toothed-cat-death-match feeling, but at least out of sight of my family, I may hiss and spit to my heart's content. And I may be the only kitten in the universe with a wolf in my corner. The thought cheers me somewhat, makes me feel bold (_though that could be the boots' influence_). "I'm more interested in why the Witch of the Wilds is at my family's Thanksgiving."

"I was invited," she answers smoothly. She rests one hand on the poppy-red hood of a Mini Cooper (_not sure what I was expecting—maybe something a little more Cruella deVille-y?_) "I have something for you, boy." She pops open the passenger side door and pulls out a plain manila envelope.

He curls his lip at it, keeping his hands firmly clenched at his sides. "I want nothing from you."

"But you will take it," Flemeth retorts arrogantly. "Call it a loan, if it pleases you. If you find you have no need of it, return it. And for you, girl, I have _this_."

For a wild moment, I sincerely believe she has handed me a magic wand. She presses a slender drawstring bag into my palm; I close my hand reflexively around the midnight-dark velour and feel something thin and circular. Warily I pull open the top of the bag and slide out—a bow?

"Your grandmother tells me you are quite a musician," Flemeth offers by way of explanation. "Perhaps you will get some use out of that."

"I haven't played the violin since high school," I snap, ungrateful and ungracious. "Which Gran would know if she bothered to read her email every once in a while."

The late afternoon sun shimmers through her white hair, tingeing it with flame, and for just a moment, I can _see _the dragon I know she is. She throws her head back and cackles. And I'm only imagining I can see fangs and smell the fire on her breath. Probably. She slides into the driver's seat and guns the engine. "A word of advice, my ducklings," she purrs as she unfolds a pair of sunglasses. "Magic comes in many forms. Find one that suits you."

Only after she has pulled away from the house and has sped down the two-lane country road do I realize her car had been boxed in on all sides, and a fresh chill pours down my spine. I look at the horsehair bow clenched in my fist, and want nothing more than to snap it over my knee.

But I don't. My sheltered, Disney-Princess upbringing has taught me at least one thing.

"Give me one good reason why we should not pitch that hag's 'gifts' into the nearest open flame," Fenris demands harshly. The loathing and fear are plain in his expression; he's holding the envelope at arm's length, one corner pinched between his thumb and his forefinger and glaring at it like he expects it to explode.

"Because you don't piss off bad fairies," I answer cryptically, "unless you're ready to deal with the consequences. And you're _never_ ready to deal with the consequences." With the utmost reluctance I slide the bow back into its case and hide both it and Fenris's envelope in the backseat of my car, underneath Scooter's travel blanket. "We'll deal with this crap after coffee and pie."


	20. All magic comes with a price

**AN:** Bioware owns Fenris and Flemeth. I'll just let the rest of the chapter speak for itself.

* * *

><p>I regret my resolution to <em>wait <em>almost immediately. The buttery crust, the spiced pumpkin filling, the bitter disappointment of the decaf—I have no energy left with which to _taste_ or _feel _any of it. I feel the _questions _grind against my skin like glass, cutting and itchy. I roll my shoulders against the imagined discomfort, and force myself to swallow another bite of pie.

Gran is starting to nod off at the table. Laurie excuses herself to put Liam down for a nap. Tara leads the younger cousins into the basement for a riveting session of Wii-golf. Mom, Helena and I clear the table and finish the dishes while the menfolk trickle back to the football game; their whoops and roars slowly morph into a muffled chorus of snores as the turkey-coma begins to descend over the house. I want so badly to smile, to take comfort in the patterns of celebration and ritual and the way Emmett's head lolls to the side until it rests on Dad's shoulder, just like it used to when he was a kid. But I can't. The echo of Flemeth's razor-sharp, mocking laughter rings in my ears; the memory of the manila envelope and the velour-encased bow feels like a reproach.

And I'm remembering why I don't wear these boots very often: my feet are _killing me_.

I feel Fenris's hand, feather-light, on my shoulder. He glances pointedly at the barn, and I nod resignedly (_oh, NOW we're communicating silently?_). I'm _exhausted_—I feel like I'm dragging around the proverbial ball-and-chain with every step. I hadn't known the human psyche could endure so much at once: fear, anger, curiosity, more fear. I want a drink. I want a _nap_. I briefly consider emulating Liam and howling fretfully. But I am sadly well past the age at which my mother would excuse herself to wrap me up in the flannel security of a baby blanket and leave me in the dark to calm down. And somehow—just guessing—I doubt Fenris would be so tolerant.

I spread out a thick wool blanket on the barn floor and drop gratefully onto it. Shadow, Mom's elderly Newfoundland-mix, laboriously lifts her considerable bulk off the hard, unforgiving planks and resettles beside me, while Scooter and Sammi prance happily on the blanket's outskirts. I pillow my head on Shadow's flank and liberate my lower legs from their stiletto-heeled prisons.

Fenris looms over me, standing with the envelope in hand. He stares at me for a long, inscrutable moment before carefully arranging himself on the blanket. I am the soul of courtesy as I tuck my legs loosely into my torso to give him more room. "Did they help?" he asks, eyeing the discarded boots curiously.

I smooth Shadow's black fur away from my nose as I answer quietly, "I'm still here, aren't I?" Something warm and solid presses against my back—Scooter's laid down behind me, legs outstretched in the other direction. Without sitting up I fumble for the velour case and slide the bow free. The slender wood is dark, almost ebony; even with fresh horsehair, it _feels _old. There is a design inlaid on the frog's-mouth piece: where most bows have a simple circle, there is a stylized dragon with its wings outstretched. With a fresh shudder of apprehension, I recognize it from some of The Game's loading screens.

"Well?" Fenris demands impatiently.

"It's a _bow_, Fenris," I drawl scathingly. "Circumstances of its receipt aside, it's _just a bow_. It's useless without a violin." I smirk at the envelope. "I've shown you mine, now show me yours."

He spares an exasperated glare for my inappropriateness and rips open the top. A deepening frown of confusion creases his brow as he pulls out a thin sheaf of documents and lays them out on the blanket. He shakes the envelope out, and a single, plastic card tumbles out to land face-up on top of the stack. His expression freezes in suspicion as he holds it out to me. "What is this, and why does it have my face on it?"

Shadow musters a twitch of annoyance as I shoot upright in alarm. Sure enough, Fenris's face is captured against a turquoise background that always manages to make_ everyone _look ugly. He's even smiling—that quiet, subtle smile I haven't seen since we arrived here and suddenly _really _miss. I take a quick inventory of the rest of the card: name, sex, date of birth—it's all here. I don't have mine for comparison (_and I wouldn't know what to look for in a forgery anyway_), but it _looks _identical to mine. "This is a driver's license, issued by the state of Texas," I answer, awestruck. I flip it over to the back, and a hysterical giggle bubbles out before I can stop it. "According to this, you're slightly nearsighted and signed up to be an organ donor." I paw through the rest of the envelope's contents until I find what I'm looking for. "Fenris," I breathe, "she's given you an _identity._"

He gingerly takes the folded paper from my hand and lays it out flat. "Cert-Certificate of Live Birth," he reads aloud, stumbling slightly. "Name, Fenris James Fitz—" He breaks off and points at the unfamiliar word, a plea in his eyes.

"Bhanna," I supply. Tears blur my vision—I've _felt _too much today and it's finally spilling over. "It means 'white'."

"FitzBhanna," he repeats. "Date of birth, December—" (_he pronounces it "deck-ember"_) "—one-four, one-nine-eight-two—what does that mean?"

"For one thing, it means I only have two weeks to find you a present," I choke out from behind a smile. "December fourteenth, nineteen-eighty-two. That's when it says you were born. You're almost twenty-nine."

"According to this." The scrap of paper flutters as he picks it up in shaking hands. "Mother's name—" The birth certificate slowly floats out of his grasp. "Erin—is this who I am? Is this _real?_" he rasps. His eyes are wet as he looks at me; I'm reminded of rain-slicked pine boughs.

"I—I don't know, babe," I confess. My heart _hurts _to look at the hope and fear in his face. I drop my gaze to the rest of the stack, swamped with still more questions that have no answers. Birth certificate, driver's license, and—I notice with a new jolt—a _signed _apartment lease for the vacant unit next to mine. It's all here—an entire _life_, spread out on the floor of my grandmother's barn.

Fenris shoots to his feet with a muffled oath and braces his arms against one of the stall doors. I hate the helpless feeling that ices my blood; I don't know what I'm supposed to _do_. Do I go to him? Do I leave him be? "The documents themselves look real enough," I say carefully. "They'll probably satisfy anyone who asks for them." I stand and slide my stocking feet across the rough wood floor until I'm only inches from him. It's as close as I dare approach without explicit invitation. "But is the information real? I doubt it. Flemeth isn't that nice."

A harsh bark of laughter stirs the snow-white fringe that is constantly drooping into his face. "That would be too easy, wouldn't it," he snorts bitterly. "For a moment I hoped—but it doesn't matter."

_Yes it does_. _If it didn't matter you wouldn't be this upset_. My chest aches with the effort of holding in all the anguish and sorrow spilling over from him. I don't want it—there isn't room for all my mixed-up emotions and his too. "All she's given you is a mask," I tell him, suddenly filled with fierce conviction. How _dare _she do this to him? "_You _know who you are."

"I _don't_, actually," he snaps viciously. "I have Kirkwall, I have here, and I have _this_." He flaps his hand angrily at the pile of papers on the blanket. "What I do _not _have are _memories_." The stall door rattles as he shoves himself away from it. "Can you tell me, woman, where I might find _those_?"

"I've told you everything I know—"

"But I _know _nothing!" he shouts. He gives the stall door a kick, and a second for good measure. "I have only your word for what my life _was_!"

I go numb as the blood rushes from my extremities to fill my burning cheeks. My voice is soft, almost inaudible even to my own ears. "Well," I murmur, "it wasn't good enough for Charlie. Why should it be good enough for you?" I scoop up the papers and stuff them haphazardly back into the envelope. The corners rip and tear; I am angry enough to not care. I shove the envelope into his chest, relishing the sound of paper crumpling. Tears of fury sting my eyes as I push past him to the barn door. "It's just a _mask_, Fenris," I toss over my shoulder. "Whether you wear it or not is your _choice_." I _will not_ let him see me cry. Not for this. I pull the barn door open and bolt.

I hold onto the satisfaction of his guilt-stricken expression, let it carry me past the barn and to the hill beyond it. I stumble and trip to its summit, disgusted with myself for already being out of breath. Fenris is right: I _am _too soft. My feet are cold—the dancing coffee cups on my socks seem to wiggle mockingly. What _use _am I to him, if I can't even handle the slight chill to the air, or fight, or even climb a hill?

And why do I _care_? At least the answer to that is easy: I care because I care about him.

_You went there. You weren't supposed to go there._

A wet nose in my ear utterly derails my deepening mope, as Scooter swipes her broad tongue across my cheek. I shoot a baleful glare at the blur of her black-and-blue fur as her tail wags enthusiastically. I don't bother to turn around at the sound of bare feet squeaking across wet grass, or the soft thud as Fenris drops my boots beside me. I am still furious with him, for several reasons that aren't really his fault.

_No. They're yours._

"I am sorry," he murmurs. Whatever handbook of Dealing with Angry Females he's playing from, he's doing well. "It was wrong of me, to take out my anger on you."

I shiver as he sits beside me, as much from cold as from his proximity. I feel raw and vulnerable, like someone has scraped a cheese grater over my innermost soul. Too much has happened today and I just don't have room for any more. "I'm sorry too," I tell him, honestly. "You don't deserve my baggage."

"Any more than you deserve mine," he answers. The awkwardness is blown away, like the tufted seeds off a dandelion, and the silence that descends is companionable and easy. Scooter curls contentedly between us, a canine apostrophe joining two sets of scattered and disjointed thoughts. I rest my hand lightly on the nape of her neck and scratch absently. "Did I hurt you—before?" he asks uncertainly.

"When you threw me down onto the barn floor?" I am petty enough to enjoy the way the points of his ears turn pink with embarrassment before I answer, more gently, "No, you didn't hurt me."

"Good. That's—that's good." His hand joins mine on Scooter's fur, back-to-back. I'm suffused with warmth as the familiar tingle travels up my arm and into my frozen limbs. "I have a name," he whispers. His arm shifts, and suddenly his palm is pressed against mine, fingers curled around the side of my hand. "And a friend."

"Check your pockets after you do laundry for the rest," I quip, feeling a little breathless, and give his hand a squeeze as the sky darkens to slate. It's one thing to admit being attracted to him. A schoolgirl crush is _nothing_. Most girls probably remember with fondness the first boy they had a crush on, and spare him no more thought than they would for the man on the moon.

It is quite another thing, I reflect miserably, to admit to _wanting _him. I've _gone there_, and there is no coming back.


	21. It's been a really really messed up week

"Are you _sure _Fenris isn't your boyfriend?"

My golf ball careens into a sand trap with an exaggerated thud. I swear under my breath as the game _waa-waas_ and the virtual miniatures point and laugh. To her credit, Tara makes a valiant attempt not to snicker as I hand her the Wii-mote. Gracious victory is not something our family typically does well. "I'm sure," I answer, deftly twisting away from the tangled snarl of wishful thinking currently spinning out like thread somewhere underneath my sternum. "Why?"

Tara frowns in concentration as she lines up her club for a perfect drive. "Well, I saw you guys holding hands earlier," she says offhandedly, "and I thought you're only supposed to do that with your boyfriend, so I asked Helena, and _she _said—"

"Wait, you told _Helena _you saw me holding hands with Fenris?"

She nods definitively, ponytail of chestnut waves bouncing. _Whack_—her ball sails across the fairway; confetti pops across the screen in a seizure-inducing blur of bright colors as she lands a hole-in-one. "She said I shouldn't stare but that a boy and a girl can hold hands if they _might _be boyfriend-and-girlfriend later. Did you guys kiss?"

I smother a groan in my knees and resign myself to getting trounced and grilled later. "No, we didn't kiss," I tell her with deceptive tranquility, reminding myself that she's just curious, that she'll hit puberty soon, that she's _ten_. "We're just friends."

She tilts her head, birdlike, as she ponders my answer. "So, you can be just friends with a boy _and_ hold his hand, as long as you don't kiss?" she asks, with a growing enthusiasm that does not bode well for the boys in her class.

_Oh, to be young again. _"Well, it's a little more complicated than that," I hedge. "You should probably ask for permission, if you're going to try holding hands with boys." I grin at her, striving for my customary sangfroid. "Don't boys still have cooties?"

Tara impatiently waves away the question. "Boys don't have _cooties_," she informs me authoritatively. She watches thoughtfully as I position my strike. "So are you _going _to be Fenris's girlfriend?"

I suspect she's doing this on purpose, as my ball veers off to the side and plunks into the water. _Waa-waa_. "No," I answer succinctly.

"What if he asks?" _Thwack. Clatter. _Confetti.

I kick and scream and claw away from the unwanted images that start playing across my mind's eye like a movie. I should have retreated upstairs to sleep off the turkey high like a normal person; tossing and turning on Gran's ancient air mattress has to be better than enduring the third degree posed by a ten-year-old girl who is also way too good at Wii Sports. The thread of secrets and longing winds into my throat until I feel like I could choke on it. "He won't," I say with stoic surety. My ball bounces morosely down the green and lands in the rough. "You win."

I take the steps out of the basement two at a time. Fenris's door is shut; I feel an utterly unreasonable pang of envy as I realize he must have succumbed to his first ever Thanksgiving coma. Dad, Emmett, and the seemingly endless gallery of uncles are still parked in front of the television—they don't notice me as I sneak a six-pack of Shiner Bock out of the fridge and take it to the barn. The hazy moonlight makes strange shadows among the cars on Gran's lawn, turns them into amorphous, hulking shapes I don't recognize. I keep my eyes straight ahead as I weave through them. If I don't look, I don't see anything, and nothing sees me. Everyone under the age of six knows that, and I think they're on to something.

The dogs _whuff _softly as I slide the barn door open. I flip a switch to my right and the barn's single light flickers on. A sturdy ladder leads into the small hayloft—more a shelf for extra tools than anything else. I climb it and set up camp on the old rough blanket from before. I open my phone's Pandora app and turn up the volume as loud as it will go.

I ride the crisp tide of alcohol and let the music swirl through me. Drums pound. Guitars scream. Bass thrums. I stop paying attention to the lyrics after the first beer and just hum along with the melodies. By the end of the second beer I'm not even doing that. I'm just listening. And then, halfway through beer number four (_nothing exciting happened during number three_), it hits me.

I'm _brooding_.

After that, it takes me a _really _long time to stop laughing. Forget sit-ups and crunches and that weird thing some people do with an oversized beach ball—_laugh _for about fifteen minutes straight, and you'll get all the abdominal workout you need. I feel like the _impossible _of the whole…_thing _has finally caught up with the fear and uncertainty and the impending doom of inevitable heartbreak, and there's nothing else to do _but _laugh.

"_Venhedis faasta vas, _woman, I've been looking for you everywhere—where are you?"

_And speaking of inevitable heartbreak…_ I roll my head on my neck toward the doorway. Fenris is standing in it, silhouetted by the lights from the main house. I've always known he's attractive; he's abandoned the formal pants and shirt in favor of a long-sleeved t-shirt and dark jeans that actually _fit._ He looks like something out of a song. Or a video game. I wave vaguely in the direction of his voice. "'M up here," I slur amiably. "What'd I do now?"

"What?"

"You only call me 'woman' when you're annoyed with me," I tell him conspiratorially. "So what'd I do?"

He mutters something in his native tongue (_sex to donuts he's swearing violently and creatively_) as he crosses the barn. "We dine, not two hours ago, with the Witch of the _fucking _Wilds, and you ask me if I'm _annoyed_, that you risk coming out here, in the dark, _alone_." The ladder creaks under his weight as he scales it. I can't help the grin that cracks my face in half at the sight of his head popping into view like some thunderously angry jack-in-the-box. "I was _worried_."

From anyone else, it would sound affectionate. Fenris may be the only man this side of _reality _who could make it sound like an accusation. "Well, don't be," I retort bitingly, "and I'll tell you why." My head pounds as I struggle to a proper sitting position: three-and-a-half beers and a fit of hysterics apparently have hitherto unexplored effects on physiology. "Flemeth _left, _for starters," I point out. "And _she _isn't the problem."

His fists clench the ends of the ladder. "How," he asks in a carefully modulated tone, "in the name of whatever god watches over fools did you arrive at _that _conclusion?"

I'm so glad he's asked. Because—and I don't _think _this is just the alcohol talking—I've figured it out. "She _gave _us something," I beam at him. "She's not gonna _off _us in the dark like some cheap B-movie monster witch thing. She's got something in _mind_."

He pinches the bridge of his nose and looks like he's praying for patience. I tend to have that effect on the men in my life. "Flemeth _is _a witch," he argues. "And a monster, unless dragons have changed radically between here and Kirkwall—"

"We don't have dragons," I interrupt smugly. "Never have."

"And even if you're right," he continues as if I hadn't spoken, "Flemeth makes _two _people who now know I'm here. How long, then, until Danarius catches up with me?"

"Merrill doesn't count," I insist wearily. "I had a _dream_, and even if it wasn't, she didn't see _you_, she saw _me_, and _only _me. Flemeth doesn't count either," I add before he can argue, "because she _wants _something. I'm not gonna worry about _what _yet—I've _worried _enough for today. And Danarius _definitely _doesn't count, because we haven't seen hide or hair of him since _you _chased through his mansion when you first got to Kirkwall. Yeah, I know about that." I gesture eloquently with the half-empty brown bottle, narrowly missing his head. "So, you can either grab your poison of choice and join me in not-worrying, or you can go away."

He's still and silent for a long moment. He surveys the scene with a cool stare the color of jade, and I can practically _hear _all the pros and cons being weighed on the almighty Survival-O-Meter in his head. My heart sinks toward my toes as his face disappears from view, as the ladder squeaks and his bare feet whisper out of the barn. Well, what did I expect? I chide myself. His entire existence up to this point has been dedicated to staying alive, staying _free_. Getting plastered in a miniature hayloft probably doesn't qualify as something conducive to either of those objectives. I make a face as knock back the rest of my beer, now gone flat and warm. _What did I expect? _

Bottles rattle together with the rhythm of someone's footsteps. It _makes my day _when the ladder squeaks again, when the white hair and tapered ears ascend back into my field of vision. Glass clinks musically as he lifts a beer out of the cardboard carrier. He braces his back against the interior wall and stretches out long legs. His feet brush up against my socks; the image of markings and dancing coffee cups stamps itself indelibly on my mind's eye. "Do you really not have _any _dragons?" he asks curiously. He tips the bottle to his lips; the markings on his neck bob and ripple hypnotically as he swallows.

The loft spins alarmingly as I shake my head to clear it. "No dragons, no magic, no darkspawn—what _ever _will you do with yourself?"

His eyes are smiling into mine as he drains the liquid from his bottle and twists open a second beer. His posture slides into relaxation until his head is nestled in the crease between the ceiling and the top of the wall. "I think I can manage," he murmurs. He blinks somnolently at the rafters, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of the elusive smile hovering at the corners of his lips. I've been waiting _all day _for that smile. Long, dark lashes make feathery shadows over his cheekbones as he blinks again. His gaze catches mine and the crinkles at the corners of his eyes deepen, almost imperceptibly.

"Yes," he says thoughtfully, "I think I will manage quite well."

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><p><strong>AN: <strong>Reader poll! What do you think Erin was listening to? Give me a 5-track soundtrack, plus one song you think encapsulates the Fenris-Erin relationship so far. I know what I have in mind, but I'm curious as to what y'all think. Thank you so much to everyone who's reviewed/favorite'd/alert'ed this-**Taffia, DKAllayna, pwny5153, BuriedBeneath, **and so many others. You guys keep me going.


	22. Twenty Questions is SERIOUS BISNIS

**AN: **Tried a little something different for this chapter. Bioware owns its stuff, etc.

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><p>"I've been wondering—what does <em>venhedis <em>actually mean?"

"Shit. If you add _faasta vas _to it, it translates as 'shit in your mouth'."

"That's _disgusting_."

"Yes, well—that's Tevinter. It may look and sound impressive, but it's inescapably corrupt. My turn, yes?"

"Mm-hm—make it a good one."

"How is it your people have no magic at all?"

"_That's _your question?"

"I want to know."

"We just—_don't_. I mean, we've got performers, entertainers who do magic tricks—cards and things—but channeling the primal forces of nature out of some spirit world to defy the laws of physics? Not so much."

"So there's no Fade? At all?"

"Nope. Our spirit world resides solely in our belief system—we get people _claiming _they hear God's voice every now and then, but we're not set up to take them seriously."

"No magic?"

"No magic. My turn. Uh—oh! What does Aggregio Pavali taste like?"

"Blood and tears."

"Sarcasm's against the rules."

"You just made that up."

"Yeah, I did, because I want to know what this wine tastes like."

"Fine, if you will persist. It's a red wine, deep and sweet, aged until the first glass tastes like the cask. I haven't yet tasted anything here for comparison. And now I'm craving it, so thanks for that."

"Sorry—your turn."

"You have no magic—"

"Christ, you're still stuck on that?"

"—no magic, yet you tell stories in which it has a pivotal role. And you tell these stories to _children_. Why?"

"Jesus, now you have a beef with _fairy tales? _Why can't you ask me something _easy_?"

"You have to answer—that's the rule."

"All right, all right. Well, I guess it's because fairy tales teach us something."

"I fail to see what, if anything, the story of a fish-girl exchanging her voice for a pair of legs can teach small children. Except perhaps magic is evil."

"Oh, don't start—"

"She turns to _foam _at the end!"

"Not in the Disney version! The witch _dies_, and the _mermaid_—not _fish-girl_—gets to stay human with her true love. _That's _the magic _we _grow up with."

"Now I'm confused. _What's_ magic?"

"True love, kisses that can break even the most powerful of wicked enchantments, and the bad guy gets thrown off a cliff. We'll have a marathon when we get ho—back to my place. I'll show you."

"Home."

"Sorry?"

"Home. It's all right—you can say it. It _is _home, for you at least."

"Well, what about you? What's home?"

"Is that your question?"

"Sure, why not."

"Home—when I had one—used to mean slavery—"

"Yeesh, talk about your buzz-kill—"

"Do you want to hear this or not?"

"Sorry. Yes."

"The Imperium was home. Then, it was wherever my former master commanded me to go. Then I escaped, and _nowhere _was home."

"What about Kirkwall?"

"What _about _Kirkwall? I lived in a decrepit pile of rock littered with corpses. You can't tell me you think _that _was home for me."

"_Home _isn't just about the building you live in. What about the people? What about Hawke, and all the others?"

"I thought we agreed we wouldn't mention Hawke."

"We did. But I think you might answer anyway."

"And if I don't?"

"I'll probably ask you to teach me how to cheat at cards, or some other inane question that doesn't really _mean _anything."

"Kirkwall was never home. Let's leave it at that?"

"…okay."

"Do you really want to learn how to cheat at cards?"

"No. I can't bluff worth crap."

"Are you cold?"

"A little—there should be another blanket in one of the stalls down there."

"I'm in no condition to clamber down to get one. Are you?"

"Not really. Maybe that third six-pack was a bad idea."

"Come here."

"Your markings—don't they hurt?"

"If they did I wouldn't offer. Come here or freeze. Your choice."

"Har har, you're hilarious. How come you're always so _warm_?"

"Are you complaining?"

"No—but I _am _curious."

"Is this your question, then?"

"Mm-hm."

"It's probably the markings—I don't get hot much, either."

"Look in a mirror."

"I—what?"

"Nothing. Thank you. For the warmth, I mean."

"It's nothing. Is it my turn?"

"Mm…hm."

"I'm fairly certain falling asleep is against the rules."

"_Ow_—your shoulder's bony."

"So is the top of your head. With no magic—"

"Is it really _that _weird for you?"

"Shush, it's my turn. You have no magic, no spirits, no demons—what is there to _fear _here?"

"We're afraid of _lots _of things. Enough people are afraid of certain things we make up names for them. Mom's got a pop-up book full of 'em."

"What are you afraid of?"

"D'you want the whole list or just the top?"

"What are you _most _afraid of?"

"I can feel you laughing at me. Laughing's against the rules. Isn't it my turn?"

"I apologize. I want to know, truly."

"Dark, empty spaces. Closets, cupboards, drawers—it freaks me out if they're open. And I _hate _caves. We went to Carlsbad Caverns once and I nearly gave myself a heart attack."

"But _why_? The contents of your closet don't change. There's nothing _there_ to fear. If we were in Kirkwall, I'd understand—sometimes there _is _something in the closet. But since I've been here, I've yet to be jumped by a shade while fetching a shirt."

"Yeah, well—that's fear for you. It doesn't really make sense. At least now you know why I don't like going into the bathroom at night."

"Because _that _was keeping me awake. Your turn, I think."

"If you're not afraid of magic or spirits or demons here, what _are _you afraid of?"

"You know the answer to that."

"I can guess, but maybe you'll surprise me."

"…"

"You still there?"

"That I'm still in Kirkwall, squatting in Danarius's disgusting mansion, waiting for him to find me. That I'm dreaming this, that a world without magic couldn't possibly exist. I'm—I'm afraid I'll wake up."

"…I know the feeling."

"You do?"

"I don't know how you _got _here, Fenris. I'm afraid any minute you'll just…_disappear_, and it'll mean I'm crazy. Mornings are _hell_."

"I'll start leaving notes."

"You're laughing at me again."

"I'm really not. It's late—can you stand?"

"Probably."

"One foot at a time, then—are you all right?"

"It's higher up than it was when I started drinking."

"You're afraid of heights, too?"

"I'm afraid of _falling_. Don't laugh! Falling's scary!"

"You're right. I'm sorry. Here, I'll go first. If you fall, you'll fall on me."

"And they say chivalry's dead. Okay, here I come."

"See? You're fine."

"You can probably let go of my hand, then."

"I don't want to."

"…Oh. Um. O-okay."

"It _is _weird for me."

"What is?"

"That there's no magic here. You asked earlier."

"Why?"

"It means there's nothing for me to hate."

"…Is that _bad?_"

"I haven't decided yet. Hate and magic have gone together my entire life. For one to simply _not be there_—I don't know what it means for the other."

"Hey, we'll figure it out, like always."

"We?"

"Well, I'll make coffee while you sit and brood in the dark about it."

"I do not brood!"

"Whatever helps you sleep at night. This is me—goodnight, Fenris."

"Goodnight, Erin. Sleep well."


	23. There were never such devoted sisters

**AN****: **So the little something different worked for some of you, didn't work for others. Thank you all SO MUCH for your excellent reviews, but especially **analogwatch, pwny5153,** and **Darkrose****Tiger**. Reviews of any kind are what we subsist on, but constructive criticism helps us grow as writers. So-metaphorically speaking-thanks for watering my plants!

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><p>There's an ambush waiting for me. A dainty, flawlessly-manicured hand closes around my wrist and drags me into the center of the room. I'm thrust onto a stool, and a painfully bright light is aimed mercilessly into my face.<p>

Or so it seems.

"You are so _busted_!" Helena squeals gleefully. "Well?"

I squint bad-temperedly at the outline of her face, thrown into shadow by the glow of the desk lamp. I fumble my glasses off my face and polish them on the hem of my shirt. "Well water," I retort. "Well drinks. Wellington boots. 'Well' has no intrinsic meaning. It needs context."

"Ugh, you know I hate it when you do that." She sniffs delicately, and her nose wrinkles in distaste. "Now we know where those three six-packs went."

My mouth feels fuzzy and sour, and I can sense a hangover revving its engine in my temples a racecar waiting for the starting flag. That third six-pack _was _a bad idea. I stagger past Helena's restraining hand and into the bathroom. A toothbrush finds its way into my hand, and into my mouth, complete with toothpaste. Helena ferries in a tall glass of water and leaves it on the counter. "Thanks," I mumble gracelessly. I slump against the wall, and slide down until my cheek rests on the cool linoleum. Away from the loft and the deceptive intimacy of Fenris's warmth, that third six-pack was a very bad idea indeed.

Helena perches on the edge of the bathtub, concern etched into every contour of the heart-shaped face. "What happened?" she asks softly.

"Nothing," I sigh, with depressing honesty. The fuzzy blue rug looks like a forest from this angle—I want to shrink and go hide in it.

"Oh honey—did you get friend-zoned?" Helena's chiming is all sympathy as she lays down beside me. One slim finger brushes the hair out of my face and tucks it behind my ear.

"No," I admit reluctantly. "You have to talk about feelings to get friend-zoned."

"But you were out in the barn for _hours!_ And you were holding hands earlier! And you're so _drunk!_"

I choke on a laugh. Only in Helena's world would all the above add up to either a confession of undying love or getting friend-zoned. "We just talked, Hel," I tell her. _And held hands. And he had his arm around my shoulder. But we didn't kiss. So we're still just friends._

"What about, for chrissakes?"

"Just—just some stuff he had on his mind."

"Three six-packs is a _lot _of stuff. You're telling me you've been out in the barn, just _talking_?"

I muster a smile. "Well, not just talking," I take a moment to enjoy her wide-eyed grin of anticipation, before I play my trump card. "We also played Twenty Questions."

I cackle as she flicks water at me. "You're _awful,_" she whines, with an exasperated roll of her eyes. "Seriously, if you don't want to tell me, just _tell me _you don't want to tell me."

"There's nothing to tell," I insist repressively. An image springs unbidden to the forefront of my muddled consciousness, of silver-blue markings, of jeans and a t-shirt, and "nothing" feels like one more sugar-coated lie.

Helena's periwinkle gaze searches my face. "Well, maybe nothing _happened_," she murmurs knowingly. "But that doesn't mean there's nothing to tell."

That's the trouble with having a sister who is also your best friend: she tends to know you _way too well_. "You want me to say I think he's hot?" I demand, struggling to sit up. "Fine—I think he's hot."

"I want you to be _honest_," she rebukes me patiently. "I don't _care _if you don't tell me _everything_—"

"Since when?"

"—but you could at least be _honest _about what you _do _tell me. Fenris is hot. So are those nude statues the Renaissance guys used to make."

"What's your _point_?" I snap.

"You're not falling for him because he's hot."

_In goes the knife and twist. _I can't quite meet her eyes as I drain my glass (_miraculously not making a mess_). "Wh-who says I'm falling for him?"

"That _thing _you're doing, for starters," she points out dryly. "You do this weird headshake thing every time you hear something you don't like." All the levity drops from her expression as she clasps my fingers in hers. "Erin—it's _okay_," she says softly.

"He has the best _smile,_" I blurt before I can stop myself. "It's this really little thing but whenever I see it, it just _does _something to me, right _here_." I press my palm to my chest (_nice, I put on the super fuzzy sweater after dinner_). If I blink hard and fast enough maybe I can pass off tears as eye-fatigue. Helena tactfully refills my water glass from the sink; by the time I take another sip, the urge to bawl has passed. "I'm a mess," I groan.

"I'll say," Helena teases me. "Who's been cutting your hair lately?"

"You're looking at her," I mumble thickly. "God, you were right, Elli. Feelings _do _complicate things."

Helena doesn't object to the nickname she (_absolutely, completely, unreasonably_) loathed as a child. "I'm usually right," she quips without conceit. "But at least now you're admitting you have them."

"I really, _really _like him," I whisper into my knees. There. It's out, within earshot of another living soul. Now it's _real_. Somehow, it doesn't make me feel any better.

Helena slides an arm around my shoulders. I roll on my butt like an egg into her sympathetic embrace. "I know, honey."

I let myself be rocked like a doll, lulled into a stupor of mingled exhaustion and inebriation. Helena quietly helps me push the toxins out of my system; she keeps the hair out of my face and water in my cup. She'd do this when we were younger, too—take care of me. We'd both be home, sick with whatever elementary school malady was in vogue. Armed with her Playskool stethoscope, hammer, and thermometer, she would gravely prescribe a regimen of bed rest and Gatorade. And I'd say—

"Thanks, Dr. Elli," I murmur into her pink fleece robe.

"God, I can't believe you remember that," she laughs softly into my hair. "You could just tell him, you know."

"Tell who what?"

"Tell Fenris you like him."

I shake my head vehemently, panic-stricken. "No—no _way_. I-I just _couldn't_." All the reasons _why_ get stuck my throat, and they all boil down to _he's supposed to be Hawke's_. But I can't tell Helena this, not without sounding crazy (_well, crazier_). "He—he's got some issues," I hedge desperately. "He's trying to work them out—it wouldn't be fair to dump this on him now." _Or ever. He's supposed to be Hawke's._

Helena nods slowly, as if she understands. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. "Props to him for being honest about it," she says approvingly. The bathroom tilts only a little bit as she helps me to my feet and into the eyelet-lace-edged sheets covering the bed. "I'll take the air mattress tonight—you get some _sleep_."

"'Kay," I mumble sleepily. The light clicks off, and I'm drifting away to an image of moss-green eyes smiling into mine. It's an image I don't want to get used to, that I don't want to think of as _mine_. But I can't keep my mouth in a straight line forever. It twitches of its own accord, spreads until I feel the corners of my eyes crinkle. _Just this once, then. _

"Erin?"

"Mm?"

"Are you _really _cutting your own hair?"

"Good-_night_, Helena!"


	24. Rhapsody in Lyrium Blue

**AN: **Hey guys, sorry about the delay; I went out of town and decided to enjoy the great outdoors of the Natural State. Hope this makes up for it! Special thanks to **Arcadian90** (you know what you did ;) ). Thanks also to **CelticRoseOfTheLake, Bubbles1375, Wynterkiss, Jolle2, **and so, SO many others for jumping aboard the plot-bronco bandwagon, and staying with me. You guys are the best.

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><p>I wake from restless dreams to dark silence. I squint at the glow-in-the-dark hands on my wristwatch—5:40. I stifle a groan and then realize I needn't have bothered: the air mattress is deserted. Thanks to Helena's timely intervention, my head feels less like a watermelon being flattened by a steamroller than it could. But another glass of water would not go amiss. I fumble for my glasses and shuffle to the kitchen.<p>

It's more crowded than I expect it to be at a quarter to six in the morning. Laurie, Helena, Mom, and Gran are all leaning against counters, mugs of Folgers (_the bane of coffee snobs everywhere_) in hand and a thermos waiting for a second pot. Helena blinks at me in surprise. "I figured you'd be dead for hours yet!" she exclaims quietly. "We can wait for you to get dressed if you want to come with us."

_Black Friday. How could I have forgotten? _Mutely I shake my head and fill a glass with water. I perch on the countertop next to Laurie and do my best to blend into the cabinetry.

"Margaret Erin Campbell," Gran admonishes me with a sniff, "it isn't ladylike to go wandering about in your nightclothes."

"I'm going right back to bed, Gran," I assure her wearily. The generational mores and norms would be _fascinating _if it weren't blasphemously early and I wasn't nursing a hangover. Since it is, and I am, it's just irritating. And I _hate _being called Margaret.

"Be sure you do—I don't want to hear of you wandering about in front of that _boy _you brought."

_Oh, for Christ's sake—_"Yes, Gran."

Laurie squeezes my hand sympathetically before pouring the coffee into the thermos. There is a quiet bustle as purses and coats are gathered, as the parade of Campbells and Campbells-in-law files into the garage and slides into Gran's car (_Jesus, what does she need a Cadillac for?_). I wave them out of the driveway and put my glass in the dishwasher.

I freeze as a low moan drifts into the kitchen. Reason claws desperately out of the lethargic synapses—_the house is packed, it could be anybody_. I inch into the hallway, listening. It's dark, except for the solitary nightlight. I jump at my reflection in the large mirror at the end of the hall; I've clearly seen too many horror movies (_one is too many_). But it's quiet—not even a snore breaks the dimly-lit silence. I'm slipping back into my dark bedroom when I hear it again. I feel my entire body quiver to attention; I'm reminded of the way Binx's and Virgil's whiskers twitch at the slightest provocation. It sounds a third time, clear and unmistakable.

It's coming from Fenris's room.

It never goes well for the first girl who hears a _noise_. I have two options: I could pull the covers over my head and wait for the moaning to stop (_it's interesting that NO ONE ever picks this_), or I could investigate.

Three guesses as to which one _I_ pick.

My pulse throbs in my very fingertips as I slide one foot down the hallway, then the other. The brushed, faux-bronze knob is cold in my hand. I feel it spin with the slow rotation of my wrist. The door silently swings open, and I'm left staring into a dark, empty space.

It is a wretched thing, the moan that twists out of that impenetrable blackness. I _don't understand _this sound. This low anthem to misery—it _can't _come from Fenris. It just _can't_. I can't reconcile this cry of desperate torment with the man I have come to know (_or as close to knowing as he lets me get_). Something like light sparks on the other side of the room—at first I take it to be moonlight. But then it begins to pulse, an acid blue heartbeat in the center of unforgiving night. _His markings_. His voice carries across the room—it's louder now, more intense. He's mumbling; I'm not close enough to hear it clearly and even if I was, it sounds like Tevinter. The markings begin to surge erratically. He groans, and I realize it _hurts_.

_God on high, have mercy on Your child_. No wonder I don't understand.

I hover in the doorway, trapped in a paralysis of indecision. Do I step forward? _Complications _will ensue: I could be discovered by my family, with all the awkward questions that entails. Not to mention the risk associated with bringing him out of whatever hellish nightmare he's currently trapped in (_I think I've already mentioned Hugh Jackman_).

Or do I step back, and leave him to face this alone?

I start to shake as soon as I step over the threshold. Every tiny hair on my body, every nerve is standing to attention; it feels as though the whole room is charged with static. I nudge the door shut with my foot (_what? I don't want to have to explain any of this to anyone who happens to walk by_) and inch my way across the ancient carpet. I cling to the odd bumps and whorls with my toes, let the little irregularities distract me from the sheer stupidity of what I'm doing. Then I'm standing beside the bed (_and if he wakes up now I'm probably dead_), and I have _no idea what to do_.

"F-Fenris?" I squeak. "F-Fenris, wake up. _Please _wake up?" This _can't _be the same man who let me sidle up to him like a cat and laughed at me for being afraid of heights (_fear of falling, technically_), Who offered to let me fall on him. Who held my hand, because he didn't want to let go.

The strobe effect of the lyrium flares transforms reaching for his hand into a potentially lethal guessing game. My fingers close around his wrist, and my arm tingles into icy pins-and-needles numbness. Tears prick my eyes at the intense discomfort (_it's clear I have to reevaluate my definition of pain_) as I clumsily thread my fingers through his and pull.

I'm not entirely sure what I expected to happen. I am, however, fairly certain of what I _didn't _expect to happen. I _didn't _expect my timing to be so utterly horrendous. I feel my hand pass through his as a violent, electric blue flash renders him almost completely incorporeal. I _didn't _expect to end up on the floor, with no clear picture of how I got there. And I'm almost one hundred percent positive I _didn't _expect to be faced with a confusing maelstrom of eyes that glow an angry, acid green in the swirls of lyrium-blue light. I'm stretched prone as he closes his palms around my wrists and yanks them over my head. The air whooshes out of my lungs as his weight traps me between the floor…and _him_.

Fear ghosts through me as I choke on the absence of air. His breath rasps hotly against my neck, and I try not to think of wolves and prey and the evisceration thereof. The frantic, scrabbling memory of a clawed gauntlet closing around and _into _my throat scampers to the forefront of my mind of its own volition.

_Oh dear Jesus. I'm going to die._

_Like __**hell **__I am._

I have a single weapon at my disposal. This is what it must feel like, to hold your finger over the Big Red Button. Spots are dancing in front of my eyes, and I feel a deadly lethargy stealing over my brain, and I know time is running out.

I lift my head off the floor, and crash my mouth against his.


	25. Boom goes the dynamite

All told, my assault (_I'd hardly call it a kiss_) probably lasts all of half a second. But the results are instantaneous, and explosive. Fenris's markings blink out abruptly as he rolls off of me, swearing. I roll in the opposite direction and scramble along the wall for the light switch. The incandescent bulbs in the fan overhead flood the room with yellowish light, banishing the ominous shadows from their corners. I brace my back against the wooden dresser and slide back to the floor, inhaling and exhaling with a new appreciation. Only after I have pushed my hair out of my face with a shaking hand (_several times_) do I dare look at Fenris.

He reminds me of some proud, wounded beast—the sort you hope makes it when you see them on the Discovery channel. He's on his side, arms stretched toward me; the dark t-shirt pulls away from the waistband of his jeans with every ragged breath, and I try not to stare in fascination at the trails of markings snaking around the narrow band of skine. Strands of white hair cling to his sweat-slicked forehead, to the nape of his neck. What _chills _me, though, is the far-gone expression that dims his bright green eyes to a dull gray. He looks _miserable_, and I can't help feeling that at least a small sliver of it is my fault.

On my hands and knees I traverse the wide expanse of carpet between us. It's significantly less terrifying in the overhead fan's warm light than it was a scant five minutes ago. I don't let my gaze wander from his face as I gingerly touch my fingertips to his. "Fenris?" I whisper.

He blinks, and his eyes focus slowly on my face. An almost _rapturous _relief wipes the horrible blankness from his face as his breathing starts to return to normal. "You're not her," he murmurs.

"No," I reply. I don't know or care who "her" is, but if he keeps looking at me like _that _I will give thanks every day that I'm not "her". And possibly find "her" and introduce her to my dainty fist. "No, I'm not." Our palms touch as I thread my fingers into the spaces between his. "I'm me."

I can _see _the change happen, as clearly as though I was sitting at a traffic light. Recognition finally dawns, and he rips his hand from mine. "_What were you thinking, woman?_" he all but roars.

"Keep it down, will you?" I hiss frantically. I struggle to my feet, glancing nervously at the closed door. "_Some _people like to sleep past (_I have to check my watch_) six-thirty in the morning."

"I'm one of them," he retorts acidly. "You haven't answered my question."

"And I'm not going to. Not here." I fumble for the doorknob. Light floods the hallway as I yank the door open. "We can have this out in the barn, if you're really attached to the idea—"

An iron grip closes around my wrist and roughly jerks me back into the square of buttery light. There's an odd, hollow sound as Fenris arrests the door's momentum and forces it in the other direction. It's not quite a slam, but I still wince at the impact of the loud _click _as the door settles back into its frame. "I am not going to hide in the barn," he growls. "There is no need, because you are not going to speak. You are going to _listen_."

"Oh, like _hell _I am, you stubborn overgrown gibbon—"

"I could have killed you," he snarls. "You don't seem to understand this. _I could have killed you_." His fingertips dig into my shoulders, like he can fold comprehension into me through my skin.

I wriggle in his unyielding grip—I feel like slugging him. But his thumbs are digging through my shirt into some mysterious pressure point around my collar bone, and even just twitching my fingers has become a herculean effort. "I _know _you could have killed me. You could also shoot me, or stab me, or hold a fucking pillow over my face until I stop breathing."

"I don't need a weapon to kill you," Fenris snaps. "You _know _that. So what spirit of idiocy possessed you to come in here and _touch _me? To touch my markings?"

All the words in the world get stuck in my throat, like hard candy. "What does it matter?" I ask defensively. "I'm not dead, and I'm _done _talking about this."

"_We _are most certainly not finished!" he shouts (_quietly, if that's possible_). "Why were you in here?"

The hard candy comes back up and fills my mouth with sticky sweetness that glues the truth to my teeth, my tongue. I open my mouth—I try to push the words out but the only thing that comes out is _nothing_.

His hands unclench—his grip on my shoulders softens and hovers in the uncertain territory between restraint and a caress. He searches my face with wide eyes. I don't recognize the expression in them, but it shoots through me and shivers down my spine. "I could have killed you," he says again, but it sounds _different_. "At least tell me there was a reason."

His rage and hurt, I could have answered with nasty, biting sarcasm, with insults and ineffectual physical struggling. But this gentle probing asks for the truth, as much of it as I will give. "You sounded like you were having a rough night," I say softly. _Please don't make me say any more_, I plead silently. _Please don't make me say I care— _"Well, technically I guess it was a rough morning, but still. It sounded rough."

"You and I have been sleeping on opposite sides of a very thin wall," he reminds me. "I know you have heard my 'rough nights', as you call them, and thus far, the only notice you take of them is to make the coffee stronger the next morning. Yes, I noticed," he adds with a faint smile. "But you did something different this time. You _know _what I can do. I _know _you know. So _why were you in here?_"

I fold my arms over my chest. I feel the tickle of my sweater on my palms, and wish it could distract me from the deepening warmth of Fenris's hands on my shoulders. "You know Mom and Helena and Laurie and Gran were all up?" I ask. "What if one of _them _had come in here? At least if you pounce on me, you don't have to explain anything."

"Besides your dead and gutted body," he shoots back.

"I'm _not dead_," I point out wearily. I grab his hand and press his palm against my neck. "See? Alive and well, complete with pulse." I let his hand drop. "It was dumb to come in here, I know, and I'm sorry."

He's quiet for what seems like a long time, looking thoughtfully into my face. Tentatively, he touches his palm to my neck, where my pulse is suddenly doing cartwheels. "You really _can't_ bluff worth a damn, can you," he says, looking exasperated and amused, and _tired_. Up close, I can see the deep, purple bruises under the glassy green gaze. His head is probably pounding, too, if the way _my _head feels is any barometer. "How can I trust you, if I know you aren't telling me something?"

_Ouch. Low blow, sugar._ "You wanna know the truth?"

"Every time," he tells me solemnly.

I take a deep breath. The words come out as though forced through molasses. "I—I didn't want you to be afraid. When you woke up, I mean. After what you said in the barn—I dunno." I shrug helplessly, and manage to keep the reflexive shiver to a minimum as his hand brushes up and down my neck. "It seemed like the thing to do."

"You were worried," he murmurs. A faint frown turns the skin between his eyes into a valley. I have to squeeze my forearms against a ridiculous urge to smooth it out with my fingertips.

I nod. What else is there to say (_besides all the things I _can't_ say_)? "That about sums it up, yeah." I shrug away from his hand on my fluttering pulse and pull the door open. No violence, no desperation—just a small displacement of air and space, and I can cross the barrier separating light and dark. "Look, I'm going back to bed," I sigh. For normalcy's sake, I manage a wry quirk of my mouth and add, "I promised Gran I wouldn't let you see me in my pajamas."

"Erin?"

I turn, one hand curled around my doorframe and my heart in my stomach.

Fenris's mouth pulls toward his cheeks, and I recall with brutal clarity that for a half-second, it touched mine, and felt a bit like I'd brushed my teeth with a lightning bolt. "Thank you," he whispers.

I stare at my bed, half-hidden in the gray of predawn. The covers are thrown back—it would be a trifle to pull the blue-and-white quilt back over my head and succumb to exhaustion. I can even see the imprint of my body in the rumpled sheets. I could fold back into it, a perfect piece for a jigsaw puzzle made of cotton and synthetic down.

"On the other hand," I hear myself say, "it's probably easier at this point to just stay up." I angle my body back down the hall, where Fenris waits with one eyebrow delicately lifted in unspoken question. "C'mon. I wanna make waffles."


	26. Leave the weeping to the willow tree

**AN: **Sorry it's short, guys, but hopefully y'all like it anyway! Bioware owns our friendly neighborhood Broodmeister, and while I've never actually tried this waffle recipe, I take credit for it. Enjoy!

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><p>Fenris frowns over a mug of (<em>terrible<em>) coffee as I step into the kitchen. "I see you in your pajamas all the time," he points out. "Have I erred in some way?"

I give him a lopsided smile over a stack of measuring cups and ingredients. I flip through Gran's antique copy of Joy of Cooking (_the one that has recipes for things like bear and raccoon_) and find the recipe for waffles. "Don't sweat it, babe," I reply. "It's a generational thing—according to Gran, you shouldn't see me in my nightclothes unless we're—you know." I trail off uncertainly, suddenly aware of how close I am to _very _complicated territory. He leans one hip against the counter, and to my everlasting horror I feel a blush creep up the back of my neck under the weight of his gaze, green and bright as fresh grass.

"Unless we're what?" he prompts curiously.

"You know—together," I answer lamely. My hand jerks spastically, spreading flour across the countertop. I scoop the fine white particles into the sink and dust off my hands on my jeans (_a promise is a promise, after all_). I focus on the blurry handprints as I vaguely flutter one hand in the empty space between us. "Like, _together._"

"Lovers, you mean," he says bluntly. He very carefully avoids my gaze, and I feel somewhat vindicated when I notice the swoop and taper of his ears is turning pink. "So I _have _erred."

"No—_I _don't care if you see me in my pajamas," I hasten to reassure him. "It doesn't mean we're l-lovers (_I stumble slightly over the word and all it implies_). It's just—it's just _easier_, to do what Gran says. Here, at least." When he doesn't look convinced, I set my coffee cup aside and step as close as I dare. "We're _friends_, Fenris," I insist. "It doesn't have to be any more complicated than that. Pajamas or no pajamas." He blinks dazedly, and I realize exactly what I might have just said. "_Shit._ I mean—"

"I know what you meant," he interrupts hurriedly, lips twitching. The quicksilver smile fades swiftly, though, and is replaced with a contemplative frown. "So—so is it customary here, to kiss one's friends?" he asks hesitantly. One eye peeks out from under the fringe of snowy hair. And his ears have gone from pink to ember-red. "Or one's attackers, come to that."

Shit. I'd been holding onto the hope he'd somehow _missed_ that.

_Girl, please. He notices when you make the coffee stronger than usual._ I give up on double-checking the number of eggs the recipe calls for (_after the quintuple-check_) and slowly spin to face him. "Not customary, no," I answer. My voice sounds about an octave and a half too high. "But I didn't have any cold, sludgy coffee to hand, so." I shrug, as if to encompass the inevitability of _kissing _as the next logical step in self-defense. "And I wouldn't call it a _kiss_," I mutter rebelliously. "More just a—bumping of mouths."

"Where I'm from, that _is _a kiss," he observes, too keenly for my tastes. "Though it—ah—lasts longer. Usually."

I watch him tap his fingers nervously against the side of his mug—he's _fidgeting_. He _never _fidgets. "I don't know how to resist you. _Fight _you," I amend hastily. "I know one or two tricks for your garden variety thug—Emmett taught me. But any time you and I—uh—get into it, you have me on the floor before I even remember I _know _anything about fighting."

"So naturally, you counter-attack with beverages and seduction," he drawls. But he's stopped fidgeting.

"Hey, whatever works," I retort, but it lacks heat. "Listen—call it a kiss if you want. But I don't think it counts." I must be getting better at reading his non-verbal cues, because all it takes is a twitch of his eyebrow to keep me babbling on inanely. "A kiss—the way I see it, I mean—it's something both people involved should want. Should be able to-to experience. And since you were mostly asleep and kind of stuck in a bad dream at the time—"

"It doesn't count?" he surmises. His lips twitch upward, and stay there this time. "Well. It's clear I must teach you to fight. And perhaps the next time we bump mouths, you'll have my full attention."

_Did he just-? Oh dear God, he DID. How many eggs go in waffles again? _I feel like I'm back underneath him, trapped in a vacuum of mostly fear, and a little bit _want_. More _want, _now. For _now_, I _want _to keep him smiling. "Wanna try something crazy?" I ask mischievously.

He _laughs_, and it is the _best _sound in the _world_—it makes me think of s'mores, minus the graham cracker. "Tell me something, _amica_," he chuckles. "What could possibly still be _crazy _to you?"

I grin back at him, totally taken in by how good _happy _looks on him. How _easy_ and _real _and _so damn cute_ it makes him. At my direction he grabs the leftover pumpkin pies out of the refrigerator and scoops the filling into a bowl. With both of us on the hunt, we manage to find an unopened bag of butterscotch chips (_expiration date: Armageddon_). Mixed with a little milk and butter, they melt into a respectable syrup-like consistency. He finds a skillet and neatly arranges bacon in it, and the perpetual hunch in his posture straightens proudly when he spins the dial on the stove to "On", independent of direction or assistance. I beat the pie filling into the waffle batter with a large fork, and ladle the mixture onto the hot, oiled iron.

We split the first waffle, anxious to discover howit turned out. "So this is crazy?" Fenris asks, scooping the melt-y, butterscotch-y syrup into his mouth with a four-by-four square of waffle.

"Yup," I reply happily, and meaning something else entirely. "Totally and completely bonkers."


	27. At least out loud I won't say it

My phone buzzes on the window seat in Emmett's old room, maliciously yanking me into consciousness. I reach and fumble for it as it rattles closer to the edge; I hit "Answer" and croak out a hello before I fully register whose name was on the readout.

"Hey," says Charlie's voice. "It's me. Um. It's Charlie."

At the sound of his voice, I start remembering things. I remember we were in a relationship for six years. I remember we used to talk every day, even if it was just for five minutes. I remember he could make me laugh. I remember we _broke up_, that I'm _single _now, and that _Inside _place swells like a wave of tar and tries to drag me under. But it doesn't. It crests and breaks, and I'm still standing afterwards, because _I haven't missed him_.

What kind of _person _does that make me?

"You there?"

My sluggish thoughts stutter into overdrive and I nod (_forgetting for a moment that telephone communication is an auditory experience, and that in all likelihood, Charlie cannot see me nod_). "Yeah—yeah I'm here. Um. Hi. Happy Thanksgiving."

"Oh, yeah—you too." Static crackles faintly between our phones as we lapse into heavy, awkward silence. "So, uh, h-how've you been?"

_This is happening. I'm having _this _conversation. Any minute now he's gonna ask if we can still be friends and oh Jesus what if he asks about Fenris—_"Can't complain," I reply, shrugging. "Gorged myself on turkey and pie—" _met the Witch of the Wilds, not that you'd believe me about _her _either—_

"Sounds like my holiday." More pregnant silence—I have the feeling he's casting about wildly for a way to make this increasingly surreal and uncomfortable conversation _normal_. "So—uh—I found a place and was wondering when's a good time for me to come get Toaster? And my stuff?"

_Normal is not going to happen. _I clear my throat and take a deep breath (_and another for good measure_). "We're driving back in tonight," I inform him. "So any time this week would be fine."

"We?" he echoes, tone sharpening. "You mean—did you take _Fenris _with you?"

_Walked right into that one, Erin_. I resign myself to the taste of foot in my mouth and make a valiant attempt to keep my own voice from rising (_with mixed success_). "Yes," I answer coldly. "So. When should I expect you?"

"You don't waste any time, do you?" he snaps. He immediately falls silent, as the scalding hot words scorch through the empty space and leave implications smoldering in their wake. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, and to his credit, he actually sounds apologetic. "I didn't want to do this like _this_."

I feel like there's an icy hole where my heart might be, drawing all the warmth in my body away from where it belongs and leaving only numbness. "You have a key," I tell him. I sound far away in my own ears. Remote—unreachable. Untouchable. "Why don't you use it." I pull my phone away from my face and brush my thumb over the "end" button (_it lacks the visceral satisfaction of flipping it closed and _that _upsets me more than the actual call_). Call ended, at 8:32 am.

I suddenly wish I _did _know how to fight. Or dance. Or do gymnastics, or _anything _besides just _lay _here like a potato and _take _this shit. I shove the covers off of me and swing my legs out of bed. I cross the floor in two long strides (_and give thanks that Helena went home to her uptown apartment last night_) and jerk it open.

Emmett's standing next to the coffee pot, cup in one hand and Liam in the other. My bad mood is no match for Liam's carefree, toothless grin—I let it melt away as Emmett hands him off and pulls a mug out of the cupboard for me. "I like your boy," he says off-handedly.

"He's not my boy, Emmett," I tell him wearily. My teeth tingle and ache as the first sip passes my lips—he put too much sugar in it. But it's the thought that counts, so I bounce Liam on my hip and tip more coffee into my cup when Emmett's not looking.

He gives me a long, piercing look, like he can put all the chaos in my head under a microscope. "Yeah, I saw you guys do the 'just friends' dance," he says meditatively. "But you didn't fool anyone but yourselves."

I develop a keen interest in Liam's masticatory investigation of my necklace. A small, winged feeling is buzzing to life underneath my breastbone at the pleasantness of the plural, which I do my best to ignore (_and fail. Not QUITE miserably, but close enough_). I extricate the Celtic knot pendant and silver chain from Liam's mouth and wipe it with a paper towel before tucking back underneath my shirt. Undaunted, he tangles tiny fists in my hair and starts cramming one of the chin-length strands between his gums. "He's _not _my _boy_," I repeat insistently, at a loss for anything else to say.

Emmett shrugs, clearly unconvinced. "Okay, he's not your boy," he placates me. With an ease born of long practice he untangles me from Liam and balances him in one hand. "I'm just saying, he's a decent Scrabble player and has the best poker face of anyone I've met. And _everyone _saw the way he looks at you."

I feel as though there's a hummingbird trapped in my chest, darting wildly across my heartbeat and doing loops through my ribcage. I have to clench my jaw closed against a childish desire to press for details—it doesn't matter _how _Fenris looks at me, I tell myself fiercely. It's not going to happen. It _can't _happen. It's _crazy_.

_What could possibly still be crazy to you?_

Crap. Now it's _his _voice I hear in my head. I mumble something about needing to pack; Emmett lets it go even though the excuse is flimsier than a used Kleenex. I slip back into my borrowed room and shut the door softly behind me just as the rest of the house is beginning to stir. I stand in the middle of the floor, glaring moodily at my scattered belongings. It takes all of five minutes to gather the dirty clothes, the toiletries and shove them into my overnight bag. I packed more stuff for _Scooter _than I did for myself. Emptying everything out and _folding _it stretches the time out to _eight _minutes. I'm folding a long-sleeved t-shirt into compulsively neat thirds (_inside-out so I can tell it's dirty_) when my gaze falls on the drawstring bag, tucked underneath the extra pairs of socks and clean underwear. Hesitantly I slide the ebony-dark bow out of its case, running my fingertips up and down its length.

I don't remember making the decision to fetch my violin from the closet shelf in my old room. I must have, though, because the next thing I remember is sitting on the floor, tightening the nut and stroking the horsehair over the resin block.

"Are you sure about this?"

The A-string twangs discordantly as my hand twitches. Fenris is leaning on the dresser, expression tight with something very close to worry. "No," I admit, and bring the wooden body up to my shoulder. I press my thumb into the frog and rest the bow on the strings. "But I don't know how else to find out why she gave it to me." I take a deep breath, and _pull_.

Only after the clear, pure _A _has disintegrated into silence do I realize I was waiting for something a little more…_sinister_. Fenris's puzzled expression meets mine halfway down the violin's neck and jumps to the bow. "Is—is that it?" he wonders. It's probably just my imagination, but he actually sounds _disappointed._

I make a few adjustments (_the thing's been sitting in a closet for the better part of six years, after all_) and clumsily tease out an arpeggio. My fingernails are too long for this—they catch on the strings and make sharps and flats where they don't belong. I muddle through the first few bars of a half-remembered recital piece, stopping when I can't remember any more. I pull the violin away from my shoulder and put it back in the case. I hesitate, then slide the dark, dragon-inlaid bow next to my old one.

"Nothing?" Fenris asks. His eyes dart between my face and the plain black case resting on the floor.

I shrug helplessly. "It's definitely a bow," I tell him, and zip my overnight bag shut. "I dunno about you, but I was expecting a chorus of the damned or something."

"Something," Fenris agrees, frowning. "You don't suppose it's _just _a bow, do you?"

"D'you think we're that lucky?"

"No," he sighs ruefully. He clasps my hand and pulls me up off the floor, and we stand there for a moment, fingers locked together in a perfect accord of confusion and deepening paranoia. He makes a small adjustment, and then our palms are pressed together. He's been doing that a lot lately (_lately here meaning within the last two days_).

His markings look they're rushing into the small, empty spaces between our joined hands. It's a deceptively _cozy _image, all things considered. "Fenris?"

"Hm?"

"Who did you think I was, the other morning?"

Cold air seems to hiss between us as he takes a step back. I flex my fingers as he wiggles loose, disliking the empty feeling (_and REALLY disliking that I dislike it_). He locks his gaze to mine—I try not to blink so he can find whatever it is he's looking for. "Hadriana," he finally answers, and the curtness in his tone tells me it's a bad idea to push any further. Not that he gives me much of a chance (_and not that I want to_). "Come," he says. "Your mother bade me tell you breakfast is ready."

I let myself get caught up in the bittersweet frenzy of departure. Mom sends me (_us?_) home with enough leftovers and frozen casseroles to see me (_us?_) through the last two and a half weeks of my semester. Scooter bolts for the door and leaps into the car as I load my bag and—against my better judgment—the violin case.

"You will come for Christmas, won't you, Fenris?" Mom asks, wide-eyed.

"If I am able," he hedges with a telling glance at me, and a smile that's almost…_sad_. He shakes hands with Dad and Emmett, and even submits to my mother's farewell embrace. "I have enjoyed this."

I _refuse _to be jealous of my _mother_ for hugging someone who, as far as she knows, is just a friend her daughter brought home. Fenris and I both wave as we roll out of the driveway; he doesn't take his eyes off the house, off my family standing together in the driveway until they're out of sight. "I envy you," he says quietly.

His hand is resting on his leg, long fingers curled loosely over his knee. I brush one hand against it—invitation or supplication or both, I don't know—and he gently grasps it, squeezing slightly before letting go.

We're getting pretty good at this nonverbal communication thing.

He drops off the edge of thoughtful silence into slumber somewhere around Waco. I find myself glancing at him more often than is generally recommended (_or legal_) for someone operating a vehicle. Sleep looks good on him; it eases the taut, stoic features into something I _yearn _to touch, to see if I can take some of that calm into myself and let it soothe all the parts of me he stirs to turbulence.

_Wow. You just put the "moron" in "oxymoron". _At least my inner voice sounds like _me _again.

The sky is darkening to cobalt, dotted with stars, as I glide into my favorite spot in my complex's parking lot. Fenris's eyes flicker open; he jumps violently as he struggles to place the only-vaguely-familiar surroundings.

"It's okay," I reassure him softly. "We're home."

He blinks at me—I can _see _the word, the _concept _tumbling end over end behind his eyes like clothes in a dryer. He gropes under Scooter's blanket for his envelope, fishes inside it until he pulls out a single key. He traces the teeth with a lyrium-etched fingertip, expression unreadable. "Do you think she included furniture?" he finally deadpans with a sidelong glance at me.

I smirk in reply and grab Scooter's leash. She hops awkwardly onto the cooling asphalt and shakes vigorously, and starts looking for things to sniff. "Only one way to find out," I call over my shoulder.

Fenris follows me up the walkway, pausing in front of the faded maroon door, identical to mine. "I've never had a door that _locks _before," he murmurs, looking bewildered. The key glides smoothly into the lock and turns with a sticky _click_. His hand finds mine (_what is WITH that, anyway?_), and he draws in a deep breath, letting it out slowly as the door swings open.

It's a mirror image of my apartment, dissimilar enough to be disconcerting. Scooter wiggles into the narrow space between my leg and the doorframe, charging in to investigate all the _new. _I reach for a light switch and meet bare wall where my brain thinks a light switch should be. I can feel the disappointed slump of his shoulders as he takes in the empty floor, the bare walls, and the inexplicably half-full bottle of ketchup in the refrigerator. "Home sweet home," he mutters darkly.

I slide my hand out of his and turn on the water in the kitchen sink. "At least your stuff works," I tell him cheerfully. We flip switches, spin knobs, and count light bulbs, as if a satisfactory "new apartment" check can make up for the fact that he has nothing to sit on. The bedroom isn't any better—a ten-by-twelve rectangle of empty carpet that I _want _to be stuffed to the brim with dressers and bookshelves. And a _bed._

Fenris is leaning against the wall and swishing the sole of his foot over the clean(_ish_) carpet, expression cloudy. I emerge from the pathetic excuse for a walk-in closet and shut the door behind me before switching off the light. I press my back into it, wishing it was a chair or a desk or _something_, so I wouldn't be just _standing _here, not knowing how to _help_. "So," I say airily, "it looks like you get your choice of bare floor or bare carpet tonight."

He mutters something in Tevinter and glares at me. "Must you make light of _everything_?" he demands exasperatedly.

"Only the serious stuff," I retort amiably. The hummingbird seems to have taken up permanent residence between two of my ribs, and starts fluttering nervously as I study my fingernails. "There's also my hide-a-bed," I add, very deliberately not meeting his eyes. "So I guess you get your choice of bare floor, bare carpet, or hide-a-bed."

Scooter follows obediently as I flee the heavy, awkward silence that ensues. I can't look at Fenris's face as I fumble for the doorknob and scamper through the deepening night into my own (_blessedly furnished_) apartment. Everything is where I expect it to be: light switches, faucets, cats. Scooter immediately chases Binx up the cat tower, while Virgil winds a serpentine path through my legs and gravely informs me the bottom of his bowl is showing. There's a note on the kitchen table—I recognize Charlie's spiked, cramped handwriting.

_Erin,_

_Came by to get my stuff—left the key in the storage closet. Topped off your cats' bowls, too, so don't let Virgil lie to you. _

Several lines are scratched all the way out—so much so that it looks like the censored transcripts of the Watergate tapes. An itchy absence of _feeling _starts swirling as I skip to the end.

_I'm sorry for the way things turned out. I hope you are happy, and want the best for you. Love, Charlie. PS-I think something's wrong with your lights. Kept seeing a flicker while I was packing._

I crumple the note into a tight ball and hurl it across the room. Binx eludes Scooter's questing nose and chases after it, cornering it under one of my bookshelves. I plug my phone into the charger-slash-home stereo system and do what any self-respecting woman does: pull up Kelly Clarkson and _rock the fuck out_.

Which is why I didn't hear the tentative knock, or the door gliding open. "Didn't you have more in here?" Fenris asks, voice raised over the sound of _What doesn't kill you makes you—_

I flush in abject mortification as I contemplate exactly what he might have seen, depending on when he walked in. _Was it before or after I started using my broom as a standing microphone?_ If the look on his face is anything to go by, it was _after_. "What are you _doing_?" he adds, smirk widening.

I think I might _die_. I turn off the music and toss my hair out of my face. "Cleaning," I answer haughtily. "What are _you _doing?"

He flops possessively onto the hide-a-bed, currently disguised as an ordinary sofa. "Accepting your offer. If—if it _was_ an offer," he adds uncertainly, sitting up.

"It was," I assure him, face still hot with embarrassment. "Make yourself at home."

Something warm and _terrifying _curls into my belly as one side of his mouth swings upward in a contemplative smile. Absently he rubs Scooter's ears, green eyes turned inward and glowing with the unaccustomed brightness of pleasant thoughts. "Home," he echoes softly.

Hours later, after brownies for dinner, after he's settled into the Fenris-shaped dent in the hide-a-bed, and after I'm alone beneath my covers and all is silent and dark, I flip through the pictures on my phone. Fenris playing Scrabble—Fenris playing poker—Fenris playing (_losing_) Wii-bowling—Fenris smiling, content. _My _Fenris.

I swallow hard and press my cheek into my pillow. In the dark, alone beneath my covers, I face what I can't in daylight.

I'm _glad _he showed up tonight. I'm _glad_ he's just on the other side of a very thin wall.

He asked me, two days and a lifetime ago, what could possibly still be crazy. Well, this is it. I've hit the bottom of the deep abyss, the core of the world of hurt rotating inside me.

I've _fallen_.


	28. And then that word grew louder

I wake to the muffled sound of water drumming into the bathtub. I squint at my watch—my alarm's not set to go off for another twelve minutes. The bright, midmorning sunlight lays siege to the cheap white blinds and pours across my bedroom floor, where Scooter soaks it up like a sponge. I curl more tightly into my nest (_being single ROCKS—I get all the covers_) and try to come to grips with the icy-hot reality of _emotion _swirling through me like magma. Nothing has to change—right? Just because I may or may not be absolutely crazy about…about a certain someone—

_Christ, you can't even say his name to yourself now? _

Fine. Just because I may or may not be absolutely crazy about _Fenris_—happy now?—it doesn't mean things have to get _weird_. Well, weird-_er_. Besides, he has to go _back_ eventually. That's just the way these things work. Hawke—I ruthlessly clamp down on an emerald green surge of jealousy at the sound of her name in my head—Hawke's probably going out of her mind with worry. And just when did _Hawke _become a _person_? Aren't _I _Hawke?

I'm so confused.

Eight minutes to go. I shake away from the snarl of new, dangerous thoughts and feelings and try to concentrate on drowsing. Scooter jumps onto the bed and curls against my back. I press against her solid bulk and let my eyes drift closed. The water in the bathroom shuts off, and I hear the rattle of metal on metal as someone pushes the shower curtain aside.

_No. Not just someone. Fenris. _

I force myself to say his name in my head. _Fenris Fenris Fenris Fenris Fenris—_see? It doesn't have to be weird. I throw the covers aside (_and have to untangle Scooter from the sheet_) and shove myself away from the mattress. If all I'm going to do with my six remaining minutes is _mope_, I'd rather just get up and start my day.

Fenris is making coffee when I step into the kitchen, a towel draped around his neck and a toothbrush poking out of his mouth. He glances up at the sound of my bare feet padding across the hardwood floor—my insides jolt with I-know-exactly-what as his lips curve upward around the toothbrush's handle. "What are we doing today?" he asks, tone light and easy. He grabs the sugar bowl and hands it to me.

My heart lurches into my throat at the warmth of his fingers as they brush mine. _Get a GRIP, Erin! _"I dunno about you," I say aloud, "but I have class." And I'm suddenly really looking forward to the opportunity to be _out _and _away_—I can't _think _with him so…so _close_. My phone buzzes in the other room—I must have forgotten to turn the alarm off. I dart away from his crestfallen expression and find an email waiting for me (_well, several if you count the forwards from my grandmother and Whole Foods newsletters_). Tucked in between cursing customs and reminders that our projects are due the day of our final, my professor has just cancelled today's class.

_What do I do now?_

I could still go—I could get on my bus and putter around campus for an hour and a half. If I played it right Fenris would (_if I was very, VERY lucky_) never know the difference. Or—

"Did you have something in mind?" I ask casually, crooking my fingers through my mug's handle.

His face doesn't (_exactly_) light up. But the stoic mask thaws slightly, and his ears flush pink. "I thought it might be a good day to start your training," he answers.

"Sorry—my what now?"

"Your training," he repeats patiently. "I said I would teach you to fight, did I not?"

I'm almost relieved. I was afraid he was going to want to walk hand in hand through scenic downtown, talking about our feelings.

_Come on. This is _Fenris _we're talking about._

"We can use next door," he continues professionally. Pride turns his smile shy as he adds, "My place."

_Oh, I am in TROU-BLE. _Before I can stop myself, I thread my fingers between his and squeeze tightly, and am _thrilled _when he squeezes back. "Think you can keep up with me?" I tease him.

His expression twists into a cocky smirk that simultaneously infuriates me and turns my knees to Jell-O. "I'll go easy on you, _dulca_."

He makes me show him what I've learned from Emmett—quick bursts of one or two moves to help me get away _fast. _They're not really designed for a prolonged battle with a fighter of Fenris's caliber, though.

"_Venhedis, _woman, make me _work _for it!" he taunts me as he flips me to the floor for the umpteenth time.

I wiggle underneath him, frustrated and sore. He's pinned my arms above my head—_again_—and I think he's sitting on my thighs. I clench my fists and try to raise my torso off the floor; he rolls his eyes and stretches me out even further. Advantage gone (_if it was ever even there_). "Anytime you want to—I dunno—_teach _me something," I retort scathingly, "feel free to jump in."

"You're not taking this _seriously_," he observes. He sounds as frustrated as I feel. "You don't start really _fighting _until I have you _here_." He presses his weight into me to make his point, before lifting me off the floor as if I weighed no more than a doll. "You _should _start fighting _here_." He takes one or two steps away from me, looking for all the world as if he was relaxed, unprepared for anything more taxing than a conversation. "_Your _struggle starts here." He bursts into motion; I barely have my hands up in defense before he has me twisted in his arms like a pretzel. "And if I get you _here_, you've already lost."

"I'm afraid I'll hurt you," I blurt angrily.

"_Dulca, _I'm not even sweating." He untangles us and steps back, hands in his pockets as he frowns at me in confusion. "You have yet to even land a punch."

"Your markings," I clarify reluctantly. "I don't want them to hurt because of something I did."

He sighs heavily. "They don't _hurt_," he says curtly. "I've gotten used to it. Now, again."

I manage to stay off the floor for a whole forty-five seconds this time. Fenris's eyes narrow thoughtfully as I try to keep one arm free—the better to sock him with, my dear. "Better," he clips out. "But that's your left hand. You wanted _this _arm free, yes?" Lightly he squeezes his fingers around my right wrist, trapped behind my back and underneath our combined weights. "Again."

I don't even last fifteen seconds—I'm so busy trying to remember _how _I kept my arm out last time and thinking of a way to switch it around that I barely see him push away from the wall.

"You're too predictable," he scolds me. "You trust your instincts to save you, and they won't. Your instincts say to back away, but I can compensate. Try something I'm not expecting."

"Short of kissing you again I'm at a loss," I snap impatiently. I puff my hair out of my face and straighten my glasses, knocked askew in the brief struggle.

His eyes twinkle mockingly. "So it _was _a kiss," he drawls challengingly. "Again!"

Try something unexpected, he said. Fine. Try _this_.

I duck _into _his calculated rush, hooking my right ankle around his. He stumbles and hops, but only slightly. _Not enough_. I spin on the ball of my other foot, and draw my right leg back for a kick. I drive it into his abdomen, and feel a rush of satisfaction as the breath _oofs _out of him. His eyes harden, and his fingers close around my ankle. I bend my knee—the one attached to the leg he has a hold of—and hop _closer_. My fist connects with his cheek with a _smack_, and he lets go of my leg in surprise. I hook it around his ankle again, and this time, I _shove _with all my might. He sprawls onto his back, dragging me with him. I catch his wrists in my palms and lean all my weight into my hands.

"I'm impressed," he says coolly. "You actually listened."

"You're worth listening to," I pant, flushed with surprise and success. He goes pliant beneath me, and I'm suddenly _very _much aware of all the places we're touching. I push off of him and perch on my heels. "Any pointers?" It's easier, this _normal _thing, if I'm not stretched on top of him like—like a—

_Like a lover. _

And when did I start thinking of _any _of this as _normal_?

Fenris raises himself up on his elbows, eyes wandering over my face as he watches me rub my hand. "Give me that," he says softly. He brushes his thumb over my sore knuckles, and the stinging ache dissipates somewhat. He pushes my fingers into a loose fist, making minute adjustments to my grip here and there. I'd never thought of a _fist _as a particularly complex thing, but he proves me wrong as each of his corrections turns it from a fist into something I can hit people with. "Keep your wrist straight," he instructs me gently. "You're lucky you didn't break your hand." He cups his palm over my new and improved fist and nods in satisfaction. "I've been told I'm quite hardheaded."

His self-deprecating smile catapults into me, and a piece of my hastily-constructed defenses folds. "I didn't hurt you, did I?" I stammer.

He chuckles richly. "I've been hit in the face by a Tal-Vashoth who knew what he was doing—now _that _hurt. Your strike was little more than a tap. I doubt I'll even bruise."

"Well, at least you're modest," I scoff. I'm tempted to punch him again.

Fenris smirks knowingly—curse this transparent face of mine—and helps me off the floor. He's very careful to keep my hand in his, at least until he feels my ire has subsided. "That's enough for today," he decides. He fishes his key out of his pocket, and his ears turn pink with pride and pleasure as he locks his door. "If I may ask, what made you change your tactics?"

"You did," I answer matter-of-factly. "You said it yourself—do something unexpected." I smile over my shoulder as I lead the way back into my kitchen and pour us both fresh cups of coffee. "I just listened." I stretch surreptitiously, trying to ease the aching soreness out of muscles long unaccustomed to rigorous activity. "And like I said, you're worth listening to."

"You're not hurt, are you?" he asks after a moment, brow puckered in concern as he eyes me critically. "I controlled your falls as best as I could, but I confess I am unused to training someone so inexperienced."

"Soft, you mean." I straighten indignantly. "I can take whatever you dish out and ask for seconds."

"I sincerely doubt that," he says flatly.

"I've survived your markings. _Twice_," I remind him with relish. I leave out the fact that the memory of his gauntlets clawing into my neck _still _fills me with breathless panic. "This should be a walk in the park."

I don't have a name for his expression. It's hard and angry and fearful and _blank_. "How little you know," he growls, and his voice _trembles,_ "if you think you have survived the worst of what I can do."

I realize, _far _too late, that I've fucked up. I've fucked up _bad_. Before I can even open my mouth to apologize (_absolutely no flippancy—that's how bad I've fucked up_), he's set his coffee cup down and stalked out of the kitchen. Every movement is precise, economical, and _silent_. It's positively eerie, the way all the sound in the room seems to follow him as he shuts my front door behind him. I _feel _rather than hear his front door open and close. No slamming, no violence.

He's just _gone. _


	29. All the world is waiting for the sun

**AN:** Bioware owns Fenris.

* * *

><p>The panic doesn't set in immediately. As with most things of import, it takes a while. It slithers under my surprise like a snake under calm water. Five minutes go by—then ten, and I realize I'm still standing in the kitchen, cold coffee in hand, waiting for him to come back.<p>

Only he _doesn't_.

I force myself to take deep breaths, to fill my lungs _all the way_, even if they feel like they want to squeeze it back out halfway. I slide off the countertop and flip my laptop open. So he needs some time to cool off—I'll give him a little while and then take him an apology brownie. Cut right out of the center of the pan, no burnt edges.

Except I have a niggling feeling that even a center-cut brownie isn't going to cut it. The panic-snake rears and spreads its hood as I stare blankly at my thesis data. A brownie would've worked on Charlie—I flatter myself that it would work on just about anyone I know. But Fenris isn't _like _anyone I know. He's—he's _Fenris_. With frozen fingers I tap on my keyboard, drawing boxes around different sections of data and putting them through a battery of statistical tests.

The good news is that the results support my hypothesis. The bad news is I'm still Fenris-less, and have absolutely no idea how to remedy the sick, cold feeling winding like venom through my veins. I push myself and pace restlessly through the apartment. How hard could it be, to just fucking apologize? I try saying the words out loud—_I'm sorry, Fenris_—and they feel flat as soda left in the bottom of the can. They don't feel like _enough_—not enough to neutralize whatever hurt I inflicted. But what else do I _have_?

I pull my tennis shoes on and grab Scooter's leash. I plug a pair of headphones into my phone and pull up the Kelly Clarkson album I was listening to last night. I scribble a note and a map onto a piece of notebook paper. I leave it where I'm fairly certain Fenris will see it and pound on his door—five or six staccato-fast strikes I know he'll hear (_assuming he hasn't snuck out the window or something_). I don't stick around to see if he answers the door. Scooter trots happily at my side as I take off at a measured jog.

I can't even sustain _that _for very long. I slow down to a brisk walk and try to time my steps the beat of the music. Scooter falls in obediently beside me (_SOMETHING'S gone right today_), shrinking away from the occasional car that whizzes by too closely. The muscles in my back twinge reprovingly, reminding me that I've been _thrown down_, several times, before I've even had breakfast. I push past the discomfort; I ignore the empty growl of my stomach. This is _nothing_. I force myself back into a jog, each footfall in perfect tempo with the rhythm pounding in my ears, in my blood. Sweat slicks my skin, leaving briny trails on my temples, down the length of my spine. I make it all the way to the grocery store at the end of the street before I _have _to stop. I pull a dollar out of my pocket and share a water bottle with Scooter, both of us panting.

Most corporate book-stores don't let dogs on the premises, but the local Half-Price Books makes an exception for the well-behaved ones. The bell on the door jingles soothingly as I push it open and step through, Scooter close behind. My legs are shaking with the effort of keeping me upright after all the abuse I've put my body through today. I fill my lungs with the smell of paper and binding glue—I bring it into me and let it patch the holes in my damaged calm. Scooter lets out a canine groan of relief as we find a seat, out of the way in the metaphysics section. I tilt my head back and rest it somewhere between numerology and crystal healing, and _wait_.

It's _agony_.

Hope flares and instantly dies to ashes every time the bell jingles, and it's not him. _Did I leave the note in a good place? Was the map clear? I'm not exactly a cartographer. Was he even home? _I pull one of the countless astrology books off the shelf and start to thumb through it. _Where would he have even GONE? _

Scooter twitches slightly as I shove the book back into place and pull down another one. _It takes roughly forty-five minutes to get here, walking at a steady pace. Shave off five cumulative minutes for jogging—you've got a fifty-minute head start. You've only been here what, fifteen minutes? _

I check my watch—yup. Fifteen minutes.

_So thirty-five minutes go by, and then what? He's gonna walk in, you'll kiss and make up, and go home happy? _

Even in my head it sounds dumb. Maybe _especially _in my head, it sounds dumb. Hell, it sounded dumb in my apartment. Playing ding-dong-ditch with a flimsy note and a map doesn't exactly scream sincerity. But I didn't know what else to do.

_Suppose he doesn't show? This isn't some popcorn chick flick—this is real life. You gonna sit here till they close?_

I had to give him a _choice_. That's all he's ever asked for.

_Right. Ignore you or let you throw yourself at him. Tough call._

Shut up. Just—just _shut up_.

_Suppose…just suppose…none of this is real. Suppose you really are just crazy._

The thought has occurred to me. Arguing with yourself (_and getting snarky, mocking answers_) is supposed to be one of the signs, right? The bell at the door jingles—I sink my teeth into my lower lip hard enough to sting and don't look.

_Tick tock, tick tock…you're not gonna find him in that or in any other book. Save yourself some grief and go HOME. _

We still have ten minutes.

_We? I'm included in the plural now?_

Scooter and I still have ten minutes. _Fenris _and I still have ten minutes. Take your pick and fucking get lost.

_Suit yourself. You may be right—don't jump or anything._

Scooter's tail thumps against the tall bookshelf as she senses someone's approach. I look up from my empty lap just in time to see a long-toed, tattooed foot inch into my alcove. The light blue lines disappear beneath dark denim cuffs and peek out from under his collar. It takes everything I have to meet his gaze, hold it steady as I slowly rise to my feet. The flat, marble-hard chill _bores _into me—I suppress a shiver as any meager remnants of warmth steal out of me. At least I didn't jump.

"I thought I was going to die," I blurt, unable to take the _silence_ anymore. "Both times."

Fenris regards me stonily, expression unchanging except for a faint flicker of annoyance that darts in and out of his eyes.

I keep going. My eyes are watering with the effort of not blinking. "You think I don't know—don't _appreciate _what you can do. But you're wrong—I've _felt _it. And I've never been so terrified in my life. You think I don't _know _I got off lucky?" I hiccup on a sob and try to turn it into a laugh. "Believe me, I do. _Jesus_, Fenris, the night we met _still _gives me the shakes if I think about it too hard. You had your _hand in my throat_. You probably felt my blood pumping, could count every bone, could've played cat's cradle with my arteries if you'd had a mind to.

"I'm so, _so _sorry for what I said," I choke out thickly. So much for things not getting weird—this is turning into something off daytime television. I tighten my grip on Scooter's leash, fervently wishing it was his hand. Like I can push my sincerity through me and into him, if only our palms were touching. "I'm sorry I treat this whole—_thing _like I don't take you seriously. I just—I don't know how else to be." I shrug helplessly, out of words and feeling distinctly uncomfortable with my naked, honest oration. I haven't really had much practice.

Fenris lifts his eyes off of me, and I feel like I can breathe again. He drags his fingers across the books' spines and steps deeper into the alcove. "You trust me," he says tightly, eyes on the cover of _2012: End of the World._

I nod slowly. It wasn't a question, but I still feel as though he needed an answer. "Yes," I whisper.

"I've killed people," he grinds out hoarsely. "People who trusted me."

"I know."

_That _gets his attention. His gaze is no longer cold—it _sears _into me, laying down a blazing pathway through secrets and thoughts and feelings. I hold myself perfectly still as from the corner of my eye I see his hand move. I don't take my eyes off his face as his palm tingles against my neck, suffuses my face with warmth as he moves it up to cup my cheek. "You know," he murmurs, "and you still-?"

"I still," I interrupt, nodding fast enough to make my head rattle. It doesn't exactly _help _that I'm pretty rattled already.

"Why?"

The truth spills from my mouth, gone dry with the effort of holding in _everything else._ "Because I refuse to be afraid of you." He blinks for the first time in what feels like an hour, and I smile wanly over my glasses. All I can see is a spring-green whirlpool (_yes, I'm THAT blind_), dragging me into depths unknown.

It's not the smartest move in the book—probably isn't even _in _the book of smart moves. But my gut tells me it's the right one. I leave his hand floating in empty air as I step into the half-circle formed by his upraised arm. I slide my bare arms (_geez, no wonder I'm cold_) around his neck and stand on tiptoe to rest my temple on his shoulder. He freezes—I feel the cords and planes of muscles tense underneath the soft black cotton of his t-shirt. I hold on—in for a penny, in for a pound, as the saying goes—and try not to breathe too loudly.

He starts to move again, and I sigh on the inside with relief as his palms press between my shoulder blades and pull me closer. He smells like coffee and sweat and that minty-static musk that is just _Fenris_. He smells _great_. His hands slide down my t-shirt and curve gently into the small of my back; it's _dangerous_, the thrill of pleasure that follows the pressure of his fingers down my spine.

"Let's go home," he murmurs. His breath stirs the fine hairs at the nape of my neck, and for once, I don't think I'm imagining it when I feel a shiver ripple under his skin as the word _home _drops from his lips.

I shiver back, bouncing back down to my heels and sliding away from him. Scooter jerks awake and follows us out. He winds his fingers around mine, and doesn't let go until we're back in my apartment. Something's _different_—it glows like banked embers and fills my tiny space with heat. I catch it in his eyes, just before they skate away from mine. I think I know what Emmett meant now.

_What have I gotten myself into?_


	30. Impossibly real: a point of convergence

**AN: **Whew! Intense chapters were intense. I want to thank each and every one of you for helping to make this story what it is, for continuing to review, to hang on while this plot-bronco drags us all over the place. **Taffia, pwny5153, Wynterkiss, DKAllayna, **and so, SO many others; I'd have to start an entirely new story if I wanted to have room to say all the wonderful, gushy, slightly-creepy things you all deserve to hear from me.

You all probably had soundtracks playing in your mind last chapter. I was particularly inspired by Kelly Clarkson's "Dark Side" and Breaking Benjamin's "Rain".

It breaks my heart to say it, but Bioware owns Fenris and anyone else who may crop up here and there (I'm looking at YOU, Flemeth).

* * *

><p>It's quiet this morning.<p>

I move through the apartment, and he's _everywhere_. He's in the lingering cloud of steam in the bathroom, heavy with that _eau de boy_ scent all men's products seem to have. He's in the folded hide-a-bed, in the way the couch cushions are meticulously tucked back into place. He's in the book, spread cover-up on the coffee table to mark his place (_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes__—really? Man has taste, I'll give him that_). He's even in the empty square of space in the brownie pan (_which I could have sworn had a brownie in it last night_). Yet of Fenris himself, there is no sign.

Neat freak, bookworm, sweet tooth—clearly he's a man on the edge and must be stopped before he hurts someone. There's a note next to the coffee maker. The shaky, blocky letters remind me of an optometrist's chart.

_Looking for work. Will return soon. F._

It probably doesn't _mean_ anything. It's just basic courtesy, to keep those around you in the loop. Surely it doesn't mean he remembered what I said in the barn, last week and a million years ago. It's certainly no reason to start grinning like a jack-o-lantern. The muscles in my cheeks start to ache with the combined effort of smiling and trying _not _to smile—since it seems I can only do one at a time, I give up and let it happen.

_And speaking of last week…_

I _should _be getting ready for class. I _should _be double- and triple-checking the results from my statistical analyses yesterday. I _should _be finishing that report on the (_fake_) faunal assemblage. I should be doing any one of a thousand things, none of which are even remotely related to pulling my violin out of my trunk, or taking it back into the living room, or sliding the dragon-inlaid bow out of its place beside my normal one. Thoughtfully I tap the dark wood into my palm, eyes narrowed at the sharp lines that form the dragon's outstretched wings.

_Magic comes in many forms, _Flemeth had said. _Find one that suits you._

Feeling foolish in the extreme, I swish the bow through the air and mutter, "Abracadabra?"

The effects are _uninspiring, _to say the least. Scooter's ear twitches as the bow accidentally brushes it. Virgil's mouth yawns open and he blinks condescendingly at me from the top of the cat tower. Binx shoots out from under the coffee table and takes refuge behind the curtains—it would be interesting if I hadn't seen him do the same thing in pursuit of an insect not even five minutes ago. My phone buzzes politely, reminding me that _fascinating _as this conundrum is, I have shit to do. I pull out a fresh sheet of paper and leave my own note.

_Fenris,_

_Gone to class. Back by 5. –Erin._

It's not one of my best days. One of my classmates is leading lecture—I feel guilty for repeatedly allowing my mind to stray (_especially since it's MY turn next week_). But there are certain things I can't ignore anymore; I put field methods on the back burner as all the _discrepancies _metamorphose into _questions_. Some questions I must ask simply because he has surprised me—I didn't _expect _him to have a sweet tooth, but it's not entirely outside the realm of possibility_._ It's never really I must ask because the reality I _see _is directly at odds with that _other _reality—he never cleans Danarius's manor in the six-odd years he spends there (_or_ _does he?_), and learning to read is _supposed _to be part of that whole…_process _with Hawke (_I will NOT be jealous, I will NOT be jealous, I will NOT be jealous—_).

Yet here he is, undeniably real, keeping my living room (_and his part-time bedroom, I guess_) compulsively tidy and reading Sherlock Holmes in his spare time.

And what's with all the _touching? _There's another thing I never expected _Fenris _would be _okay _with (_not that I mind, really_). But after our fight yesterday he was downright _cuddly._ Well, cuddly for Fenris. It was mostly confined to holding hands for prolonged periods of time and exchanging significant, blushing glances across the room. I've been dragging my heels against this (_kicking and screaming, if we're being honest_); now I feel as though I'm running down a steep slope, and all that's waiting for me at the bottom is an almighty crash.

My pen scrapes across my notebook, ink gone dry—I've been tracing a circle in my notes for the last ten minutes. I shake myself out of my reverie just in time for the lecture to be finished (_there IS a merciful god_)—I gather my things and slip out the door, mind and heart abuzz with needling pinpricks of questions that won't have answers unless I _ask _them.

What would it be like, I wonder, to actually look _forward _to a conversation?

Luckily, Fenris doesn't seem to be back yet. I'm glad, for once—it gives me time to scramble for a natural segue from _So where did you learn to read? _to _Are you hitting on me?_ I'm still frantically racking my brain when Fenris swings my front door open an hour later, announcing himself with only the most cursory of knocks. I take one look at his face, so blank and carefully expressionless it somehow comes back full circle to miserable, and I know _questions_ are going to have to _wait_. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't just a little relieved. I grab a pint of Haagen-Dazs out of the freezer, two spoons, and what's left of the brownies, and join him on the couch.

He gives me a long, guarded look, but eventually takes one of the spoons. "_Festis bei umo canavarum,_" he mutters as he digs into the vanilla-and-chocolate ripples.

I snort with laughter and dip a chocolate chip into the ice cream. "There are worse ways to die," I drawl. "So what happened?"

He blows a heavy sigh through pursed lips as he spreads ice cream onto a brownie with the back of his spoon (_I wasn't kidding about the sweet tooth_). "I have exactly _one _skill set, courtesy of Danarius," he finally answers. "Thus far, it has served me well. But it seems no one here is in need of it."

"Yeah," I'm forced to admit, "not a whole lot of demand for lyrium-enhanced elven swordsmen."

"You're not helping."

"I am too—brownies and ice cream, see?" I dig my spoon into the carton in illustration and bring it to my lips. "Seriously, though—"

"I should mark the calendar," he interrupts with a smirk. "Erin is serious for once."

Childishly I stick my tongue out at him around a mouthful of fudge ripple. "You're smart, capable, you pay attention, and while we're being honest, you're not bad-looking." Understatement of the fucking century, that. Possibly the millennium. "Just because no one needs a lyrium-enhanced elven swordsman," I finish, "it doesn't mean no one needs _you_."

He stills, thoughtfully staring at the crumbs left in the brownie pan. "An interesting thought," he muses. "What do you suggest?"

"For starters, _forget _Danarius. Dwelling on him isn't gonna help you do _anything_."

"_Venhedis, _woman, he's still out there somewhere—"

"He's somewhere in _Thedas_," I correct him smugly. "When was the last time you _actually _laid eyes on him, huh?"

He glares stonily at me. "You _know _when."

"Exactly. This is _Texas_—he's no more part of your life here than magic is. So forget about him."

He's quiet—so quiet that for a heart-stopping moment, I'm afraid we're reprising our altercation from yesterday. But then he _grins_. "A world without magic _or _Danarius," he murmurs in wonder.

"Boggles the mind, I know," I comment through my own smile, giddy by proxy. "As for the job thing—why are you looking, anyway?"

Fenris shrugs one shoulder, meditatively stirring the dregs in the bottom of the ice cream carton. "What good is a place to live if I can't afford to keep it?" he asks softly. "As for the job thing—?"

"So—wait, you want to _stay_? _Here?_" The hummingbird living in my chest snaps awake and zooms back and forth across my suddenly racing heart. "What about Kirkwall, and Hawke?"

"What _about _them?" he retorts mildly. "As of _right now_, I have more reasons to stay than I have to return. And since the only means of my return we have come up with is contingent upon the weather being cooperative—which it has not been—I see no reason to continue as though I may evaporate into thin air." He pitches the mostly-empty carton into the garbage; water drums into the brownie pan with a resonant _bong _as he rinses out the crumbs and puts it in the dishwasher. "Are you so anxious to be rid of me?"

"I don't want to be rid of you at all." The words fall out of me, senseless and revealing. I don't truly realize exactly what I've _said _until the tapered points of Fenris's ears start glowing against the snow-white strands of his hair. "I mean—" I falter helplessly for a way to take them back, to spin them into something innocuous and friendly. "I'm not in any big hurry," I mumble lamely, eyes on the toes of my socks.

The microwave hums and beeps. Fenris comes back with two cups of this morning's coffee and hands me one to bury my face in. "You were saying about the job thing," he prompts me nonchalantly. But the tips of his ears are still flushed pink.

_God, just let the floor open up and swallow me_. "Right—about the job thing." I pull my face out of my mug. "The best advice I or anyone can give you is don't get discouraged. Keep putting yourself out there. You're bound to get someone's attention eventually." I nudge him with my elbow and grin cheerfully.

His eyes twinkle mischievously as he not-quite-smiles back. "Not bad-looking, hm?" he teases me.

_Christ on cornered toast. Kill me now_. I roll my eyes at him and duck my face back into my mug. "Now you're just fishing," I mutter. "C'mon—you said you'd show me how to flip you."


	31. There's probably a song for this feeling

The human psyche can keep the truly bizarre in the _bizarre _category for only so long before _bizarre _becomes _normal_. It doesn't take long to fall into a routine—Fenris is gone by the time I rouse myself in the mornings, with a note left next to a fresh pot of coffee. Mom sends me scans of my old sheet music—each morning, I pull out the violin (_and go nowhere near the dragon bow, just to be safe_), and little by little, my fingers remember what to do. I challenge myself by trying to play by ear the violin parts from film scores (_the __Master and Commander__ soundtrack is a lot of fun_). My phone goes off; I'll leave my own note and go to class. I give him my spare key, and tell myself it doesn't _mean _anything—I have the coffee maker and the furniture. That's all.

Sometimes he's back by the time I get home; sometimes he's not. I cajole him into telling me how the day's hunt went (_he can usually be persuaded with food_). We train for as long as he thinks I can take the abuse; I can't help feeling a bit proud that we can go a little longer every day (_and I get REALLY excited the first time my stomach _ripples _instead of _jiggles). Every day, I mean to ask the questions I _need _to ask. And every day, I put it off—_this is hard enough; he doesn't need me nagging him_. But every time I see a different book on the coffee table (_he goes from __Sherlock Holmes__ to __Lord of the Rings__. Seriously._), propped open to mark his place, I remember all the things that are _different_, and I tell myself _today's the day. I'll ask him today_. And every night, I go to bed answer-less.

Routines. We all have them. Personally, I'm amazed that amidst all this, I still find time to do my classwork.

The back door of the classroom cracks open as I'm delivering my lecture on the importance of public outreach in archaeology. A lanky, familiar shape slips through and slides into an empty seat several rows behind the professor. I stumble over "Kennewick Man" and try not to stare at my newest audience member. He's pulled a baseball cap over his hair (_where did he get that, I wonder?_), but there's no hiding those ears. If _anything _could make the last class day better (_other than it's the LAST CLASS DAY_), this is it. I finish my presentation (_only five minutes too early—thank God for Q&A)_ and watch as Fenris makes his way through the small crowd of departing students.

Something's _off_. He's pulled into himself like an anemone—practically inside-out with introspection. Shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, he stalks toward me through the rows of desks. The too-happy grin fades from my face as he draws closer. Fear snakes into my veins, and even though I know it's nuts, I start to wonder if I was wrong—I start to wonder whether he's truly _safe_, even here. "There's a look I haven't seen in a while," I greet him cautiously. I fold my arms across my chest, hugging myself tightly to appease the urge to reach for him. "Feel like walking a girl home?"

He doesn't answer—only falls in step beside me as I pack away my things and switch off the light. I feel the weight of the many stares that swing our way as I lead him through campus; I'm willing to bet Fenris does too. Anxiety coils tightly in the pit of my stomach as I try to discern who thinks he is the most beautiful creature that ever graced the earth, and who _recognizes _him. It's harder than it sounds—_everyone _does a double-take as he passes. Thank God it's a nice day—he doesn't protest as I lead him through the university-owned section of Riverside Park, as I set down my messenger bag on the small dock used by kayakers and tubers and slip off my shoes to dangle my feet in the current. I pull an apple (_only slightly bruised_) out of my bag and offer it to him. "I'm no expert," I remark casually, "but this looks like brooding."

"I do not _brood_," he retorts automatically, but he sounds distracted. He plucks the apple out of my hand and twirls the stem in his fingers. It pops off; a minnow swims up to investigate the ripples as Fenris flicks it into the water.

"Like I said, I'm no expert," I placate him. The late afternoon sun shimmers through the bare branches of the trees and spills white-gold light onto the river's surface. "So what's up?"

He puts the apple down on the well-seasoned planks between us (_does that mean he isn't hungry? Can I eat it?_), pulled so far _away _he might as well be a ghost. I want to reach for him—to follow him, to bring him _back_. But I don't. Whatever this…_thing _is, it still has limits. And I have very little desire to test them unnecessarily.

"I was offered work today," he finally says, still in that remote, distracted tone. "It's the first—the _only_—such offer I have received." He scowls at the markings on his palms; the winding paths snake up his forearms as he clenches his fists. "_This _is all anyone sees," he growls angrily. "A _week _of searching, and it seems the only work I am fit for is to inflict this on others. One more thing for which I have to thank Danarius," he finishes bitterly.

"Someone asked you to ritually torture people by branding lyrium into their skin?" I ask sarcastically.

"No, that's not—you're _impossible_." But he's closer than he was; he's _here_. "A man came out of a shop as I was walking past. We shook hands, and he started asking about my markings." He sinks his teeth into the apple's skin and chews thoughtfully. "He asked who'd done them."

"What'd you tell him?" I ask in alarm.

He snorts derisively. "I said my former employer had paid handsomely for it. He didn't press the matter, only asked if I would consider working for him."

"Doing what, exactly?"

He tosses the core of the apple onto the nearby bank and sighs. "He asked if I would act as his assistant, for the overflow. Marking people," he finally clarifies. "For money."

An enormous sigh of relief gusts out of me before I can help myself. "You're all bent out of shape because someone offered you a job in a _tattoo parlor_?" I laugh incredulously. "You had me _worried! _I was afraid it was gonna be hit man, or something."

"Do you not understand?" he bursts out. The dock shakes ominously as he shoots to his feet and tries to pace (_I say "tries", because he can cross the width of the dock in one stride_). "I _will not _pass this on to others! I _cannot_!"

"Babe," I tell him, still laughing, "you are blowing this _way _out of proportion. "Let me tell you something, about your prospective victims. College kids, out on their own for the first time, getting inked because they think it's cool. They'll ask for their Greek letters, their Japanese characters, and their tramp stamp butterflies. And you'll give them what they want and laugh, because in five or ten years, they'll wonder what the hell they were thinking."

"You think I should take his offer?" he asks waspishly.

"I think you're a grown-ass man and can make your own damn decisions," I shoot back amicably. "But I also think that a tattoo means something different to you than it does to us. Let me show you something." I shrug out of my sweater and tug my t-shirt collar over my shoulder. The brisk December air raises goose bumps on the few square inches of bared skin. I straighten my spine and try to ignore the heat I feel creeping up the back of my neck under his gimlet scrutiny.

The dock rocks gently as Fenris folds himself into a cross-legged seat behind me. I bite my lip against a surge of electricity as he tentatively brushes his thumb across the tangle and swirl of Celtic knots centered on my shoulder blade. "Did you—did it hurt?" he asks quietly.

"It stung a little, sure." I can _feel _him frowning as he traces the intricate, interconnected lines with one finger. My eyelids drift shut of their own accord, lulled into tingling hypnosis as he follows the knot's path. Tension pools and coils at the base of my spine—I feel strangely outside myself as it builds, until it feels as though my entire reality is composed solely of his fingers drawing winding circles on my skin.

"How old were you?"

"Twenty. I copied the design off my necklace and kept it my wallet for six months. Helena finally talked me into actually getting the thing done."

"She does that a lot, your sister," he comments blandly.

I abruptly shake back to full consciousness as his fingers still. I tug my shirt back into its proper configuration and pull my sweater back on. But I still feel the feathery static of his touch on my shoulder. I toss my hair out of my face and scramble for some semblance of self-possession. "M-my point is," I stammer, "bad decision or not, everyone who walks through that door makes a choice. Including me." I grin disarmingly over my glasses into the inscrutable blur of his elven features. "You get to choose, like always. You can take the job, or you can keep looking. But don't think for a second you're _inflicting_ anything on anyone. Least of all _this_." I brush the backs of my fingers against the silver-blue lines of his markings. "And even _this _was a choice."

"How could I have forgotten," Fenris sighs with long-suffering sarcasm. He slides his arm out from under my fingers and folds my hand into his. _Finally._ "Were we not walking home?" he reminds me. Discussion over.

It's a familiar dance by now. I drive myself past the instinctive urge to back away, and rush forward. Since our first training session I've tried to come up with new ways to trip him up, to turn his momentum into something I can use. I'm beginning to suspect he lets me win every fifth or sixth round (_bout? Match?_) just so I don't frustrated. I haven't forgotten what he said about controlling my falls. I duck, I spin—and more often than not, I end up on my back, with my arms stretched and pinned over my head.

"I'm going to do it," Fenris pants into my neck. At least I made him work for it this time. "I'm going to take that man's offer."

I brace the sole of my foot against his bent knee and kick it out from under him. He grunts as he lands heavily on his shoulder; I roll clumsily with his momentum but I still end up on top. Point to me. "Which brings us to a _very _pertinent question," I gasp. "Existential crisis aside."

"Oh?"

"Do you know how to draw?"

He smirks. He lunges up and forward, too fast to accurately be called a sit-up. He wraps his long arms around my torso, pinning my arms to my sides and driving me to the floor. "I'm smart," he chuckles into my hair. "Capable, I pay attention—and apparently I'm not bad-looking."

"You're also _heavy,_" I grunt tartly. It's just his weight making me feel breathless. It has nothing to do with the sudden sizzle of _want _that curls into my toes. Nothing. At. All.

He shifts as he senses my surrender; greedily I gulp air into my lungs as he rests his weight on his elbows and smiles into my face. "You were right, _dulca_," he murmurs.

"That has to be the sweetest thing you've said to me," I joke feebly. The words feel like sandpaper scraping the inside of a mouth gone dry.

"I clearly need to practice my flattery, in that case."

There. Right _there_. It shimmers in and out of the narrow space between us so quickly I'm _almost _convinced I've imagined it. But it quirks that soft, secret smile into something sensuous; it lights a fire behind the steady moss-green gaze. It makes me want to throw all my _questions _out the window—I'll trade every answer in the _world_, if it means I get to have _this_, even for a second.

Somewhere, something in him sizzles back.


	32. Burning at both ends

**AN: **Sorry this one took a while, guys! I got a little obsessive over word choice :p. Bioware owns Fenris (gonna cry in my corner for a little while over that one).

As always, thanks are in order: to **Taffia** and** pwny5153,** for reviewing basically every chapter; to** teviko, DKAllayna, AllyriaWaters, **and so many others, for your continued support and input; and to **MissLizziebeth, Shepherd Supreme, **and **Nameless Sinner.** Welcome aboard the plot-bronco bandwagon!

* * *

><p>"Behind you!"<p>

"Fucking Christ, where're they all _coming _from?"

I bend acrobatically out of the way as the edge of Fenris's blade whistles over me and sinks into my attacker. I catch my weight on the heels of my hands and kick my legs up; I catch the Dog Lord on the jaw with the sturdy heel of my boot, and he goes down with a whimper and a gurgle of blood. I spin away from the crimson spray with a creak of leather armor, ending face to face with a fresh assailant. My fist shoots out, lightning-quick, and connects with his cheek with a wet crunch. I shake the impact out of my hand and slide a dagger across the man's throat, shoving his body away from me before blood gets into my hair. Only one left: I flip my dagger in my palm and take careful aim. The tapered, elegant blade sinks into the thug's eye just as he's about to sink his knives into Fenris's unguarded back. _Not on my watch, bucko._

We're a pretty good team, Fenris and me. I extract my dagger from the dead man's eye socket with a graphic sucking sound, and wipe it on his jerkin. Once it's clean, I slide it back into its sheath at my hip and pull a pocket-sized bottle of Purell out of a pouch on my belt. I savor the acrid sting of its scent in my nostrils as I squeeze a generous dollop into my palms before offering some to Fenris.

"My thanks," he says gravely, jerking his chin at his would-be assassin.

"It's what we do," I chirp back as I push my hair out of my face. I lean against the wall of the alley and let my lips curve upward in a flirtatious smirk. "We're friends, after all."

"Is that what we are?" he croons, pressing closer. His hands settle around the curve of my hips and he pulls me into him. "I could have sworn it wasn't customary for friends to do _this_."

I hum contentedly in the back of my throat as his eyes dominate my field of vision, as our mouths whisper together—

The alarm rips through the fabric of this pleasant fiction with a shrill, ringing scream. I start awake, heart pounding, just in time to hear a muffled thump and a scorching torrent of Tevinter invective from the other room. Frantically I reach for my phone—it buzzes maliciously out of reach and tumbles onto the living room floor. I scramble for it and it cuts off, several moments too late. My laptop starts a precarious slide off the couch; I make a wild grab for it and manage to set it out of harm's way on the coffee table. I shove my glasses into position just in time to see Fenris charging out of the bedroom, hair tousled and eyes hot with fury and panic. I blink, nonplussed, at the winding paths of lyrium crisscrossing his chest and abdomen, snaking over his shoulders and down his bare arms.

_Sweet Jesus. He's not wearing a shirt_. "Did we switch?" I ask, stupid with sleep interrupted. _He's not. Wearing. A shirt. _

"You tell me," he snaps.

I hate waking up to alarms—they always make me feel _late, _which gets the adrenalin going for absolutely no good reason at all. And _he's not wearing a shirt_. I consider myself lucky he apparently sleeps in his jeans. I rake a shaky hand through my hair, trying to bring all the pieces back together in the proper order. "I was working," I mumble, "and—and I must've fallen asleep. 'M sorry," I remember to apologize, belatedly. "Didn't mean to kick you out of your bed. Or wake you up." A second burst of adrenalin surges through me as I remember why I set the alarm in the first place—_my final_. "Oh shitting fuck ass head in a hole, what time is it?" I stare at the wall clock, frenzied, and only feel my heart beating again when the hands report 5:50.

"Too fucking early," he grumbles. But having assured himself that the tortured souls of the damned are not making an appearance, he shuffles into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee. Shirtless. "You were sound asleep and impossible to rouse," he explains grudgingly. "The bed was a more appealing alternative than the floor, so." He shrugs casually as the coffee maker begins to gurgle.

I _can't stop staring _at his markings, swirling over the broad expanse of his back and disappearing into the waistband of his jeans. I'm captivated—_hypnotized_—and that sizzle of _want _snap-crackle-pops like hot oil. My fingers itch with a desire to _touch_, to follow those trails of lyrium into madness. I clench my hands into fists until the urge subsides, until my fingernails dig tiny crescents into my palms. I drag my computer into my lap and rub the touch pad until the screen flickers to life. My presentation winks placidly at me: blocks of text and figures arranged poster-style in PowerPoint and unchanged from when I'd last saved it. I let out a slow breath of relief, and some of the gnarled, panicked tension unknots itself.

It doesn't change the fact that he's still _shirtless._

"You're staring at me."

My sluggish thoughts hiccup at the tense rumble of his voice, and I jerk my gaze away from his chest. His expression has hardened defiantly; the points of his ears are flushed an angry red. "Sorry," I mumble. I flip my laptop closed—fitfully rearranging tables and figures for another hour and a half is not going to accomplish much of anything. I force my spine to straighten, make myself meet his gaze as though he _weren't _making my pulse pick up speed simply by _standing _there. I claim my usual spot on the countertop, bouncing my heels on the cabinetry. "Been a while since I had a shirtless man in my kitchen," I blurt over the rim of my coffee mug. "How'd last night go?"

Fenris's expression softens, though just barely. "I appreciate the effort," he says, tone tight with sarcasm, "but there's no use pretending. I know what I look like."

"Some days I really don't think you do." I rinse my cup and put it in the dishwasher (_otherwise he'll do it and I'll feel guilty_). "Try to go back to sleep, babe," I urge him. "I'll be extra quiet when I come back." I duck into the bedroom for a change of clothes and spin the water on in the bathroom. The hot shower finishes clearing away the cobwebs, even if it doesn't do much to dispel the warm yearning that pools at the base of my spine. The bedroom door is closed again when I step out; evidently Fenris took my advice (_and we may have to revisit our sleeping arrangements; no way am I sleeping peacefully knowing he's been shirtless in my bed_).

It probably says something about the resilience of human (_and elven, though in this case I don't think there's an appreciable difference_) nature that after only a week, we managed to fold the new into the routine along with the old. We switched back to training in the mornings— it's the only block of time we both have free, between his increasingly nocturnal schedule at (_I shit you not_) Mystic Mark's Body Modifications, and my deepening mania over several deadlines (_this being the last one_). I've learned to tune out his steady stream of incomprehensible profanity as he copes and recopies tattoo designs onto notebook paper; he's learned to ignore my outbursts of hysterics over a badly-aligned graph. We live _apart _in the same space so well I'd be tempted to second-guess that _moment_, pinned underneath the weight of a smile gone hot, if I wasn't also beginning to suspect our training sessions have become as much an opportunity to teach me self-defense as they are a reason to _touch_, to _be _touched. Moments on top of moments—amidst the breathless instruction, the sparing praise (_my right hook's getting better, apparently_), _something _is happening. I'd never admit it out loud, but it does more to wake me up than a pot of coffee ever could.

Scooter finds a spot of floor out of the way as I pad (_mostly_) silently through the apartment. The morning routine feels thrown off-kilter—another reason to hate waking up to alarms. I gather all my scattered bits and pieces—laptop, coffee-to-go, keys, sanity (_or closest acceptable substitute_)—leave a note for Fenris, and slip quietly into the overcast morning.

I'll spare you the boring details of the lengthy presentation I give on the lack of any statistically significant link between the rate of black plague infection and blood type; the short version is wash your hands and cover your mouth. I manage to sit through my classmates' presentations, already sinking into the cycle of exhaustion, relief, and triumph. Six weeks of relative freedom starts _now_. I'm going to go home, reclaim my sofa, take a nap—

_It's Fenris's birthday_.

The errant thought plunks into my stream of consciousness, disruptive as a rock in calm water, and beckons me to follow. I let it carry me past my bus stop and any intention to pursue any of the pleasant endeavors mentioned above. Steely clouds congregate ominously overhead, and I cross my fingers against the almost-certain chance of rain as I hurry into the fluorescent-lit corridors of the nearby grocery store.

I emerge almost an hour later into a dense drizzle, clutching a bag of cake ingredients and three bottles of wine. Hopefully _one _of them will taste like Aggregio Pavali.


	33. The weather outside is frightful

A steady patter of rain is my only company as I tiptoe back into the apartment (_extra quiet, as promised_). The bedroom door has been left open—a quick peek inside reveals only an empty bed, sheets tucked neatly under the pillows, and Scooter, whose mood shoots from despondency to ecstasy in the split second it takes her to recognize my scent. I glance uneasily out the window at the deepening puddles in the parking lot, the rain that shows no signs of abating. A frisson of nervousness plays down my spine like a xylophone at the thought of Fenris walking home in it; I can only hope he took an umbrella with him.

I take advantage of the solitude and put on a Disney movie for background noise—baking from scratch calls for something unabashedly cheerful. I sing along absentmindedly as I mix the cake ingredients together, as the thick batter turns a rich, dark red. I spoon it into two cake pans and slide them into the temperamental oven, and mix the cream cheese icing while they bake.

Red velvet birthday cake: bare necessities indeed.

The ending credits begin rolling as I finish clean-up. The rain has relentlessly continued to drum against the carport outside my bedroom window; gingerly I climb onto the empty bed and let the sound coax me into a happy lethargy. Only the faintest hint of Fenris's unique scent remains, but that's still enough to tempt me into an encore of this morning's dream. I sit up, swearing and giving the blameless pillow a resentful glare. It's as I feared: peaceful sleep is now impossible (_a damn shame, too—these are my favorite sheets_).

My attention trips over my violin case, sleek and black and tucked unobtrusively against the wall between my dresser and my nightstand. I haven't practiced all week—in truth, I haven't _wanted _to, and finals week gave me exactly the excuse I needed. A reproachful trace of vestigial guilt, leftover from my high school days of orchestra and private lessons, prompts me forward to open the case and pull out the instrument I had both adored and loathed (_as any true teenage musician does_). My fingernails have once again grown too long; I trim them down and begin my warm-up of arpeggios, of scales and trills and the vibrato technique I was never _quite _able to master. But I remember the forms and rigors of _practice_; I feel like I've stumbled on a very old, beloved bedtime story as I flip through the sheet music I printed off Mom's scans. I brace myself against the arm of the couch as I sit, straight-backed and cross-legged, and choose a piece at random—then another, and another, and _another_. By the time the sky darkens from steel to deep slate, by the time I've played through my entire repertoire of music, I'm not just practicing anymore.

I'm _playing_. I'd forgotten I could do both at once. I lose all sense of time as I start to improvise; as I remember how to have fun (_my bluegrass rendition of "Bear Necessities" is a masterpiece_). I try to pick out by ear every song I know, adding embellishments simply because I can, because I _want _to. I feel like _this _is the first thing I've done for its own sake in _weeks_. And it feels _really good_.

"Well. This is new."

My bow screeches to a halt as I jerk toward the sound of Fenris's voice in the doorway (_and the domino-effect crack of my spine is GLORIOUS_). Remorse momentarily clouds his expression as he follows my consternated glance toward the wall clock. "_Culpas, _I didn't mean to startle you." He swings the door shut behind him and nudges away Scooter's exuberant greeting with his knee. A gust of damp, cold air follows him inside; I shiver in sympathy at the wet squeak of his feet across the wood floor, at the nearly-inaudible drip of water in his wake.

"Don't tell me you _walked _all the way from _downtown _in _this_," I exclaim, mildly horrified.

His lips twitch in amusement as he fishes dry clothes out of the dresser under the television. "Very well," he answers mildly, "I won't."

I scramble into action as he disappears into the bathroom to change. It's only _nine _(_Christ and kippers, was I really playing for seven hours straight?_); I'd been banking at _least _another three hours. I recklessly thrust my violin aside and slide on stocking feet into the kitchen, picking up a good deal of Fenris's sodden trail on the way. I force myself to _slow down_ as I pluck two wineglasses out of their cabinet and set them on the counter. It's just _Fenris_. There is no need to get this worked up about some cake and some wine.

_You made a red velvet cake with cream cheese icing _from scratch_ and bought three bottles of wine. Would you like to offer an _alternative _definition of worked up?_

I have me there.

The bathroom door scrapes open as I'm fussily slathering icing onto the cake. Fenris's puzzlement is a palpable force as he watches my hands through a screen of wet forelocks. "What's all this?"

"We call it a cake," I reply flippantly. If I keep spreading icing onto this cake, I won't be tempted to sweep aside the damp tumble of hair drooping into his face. "What are you doing home so early?"

"Mark gave me the evening to myself, on account of it's apparently my birthday," he explains. "What's it for?"

"Eating." I grin unrepentantly into his exasperated glare before explaining, "It's for a few things. Sorry for waking you up and freaking you out this morning. Thank you for being easily the best roommate I've ever had, and that includes my sister. And, since it's apparently your birthday—" I interrupt myself to arrange a handful of candles around a confetti-colored _29 _in the center—"Happy birthday."

Slowly his gaze scales the distance from the cake to my face, and back down again. "That's for me?" he asks, confusion and pleasure battling for dominance on his elven features.

"You can share if you don't wanna get fat," I tease him.

"Perish the thought," he drawls. "Why the candles?"

I click on a lighter and touch the small flame to the circle of wicks. "You make a wish and blow them out. Hit the light, would you?" The cheerful yellow flames waver slightly as the kitchen is plunged into a labyrinthine flicker of shadows and light. It plays between us, dancing over the familiar planes of Fenris's face as he approaches the cake on the countertop. "Close your eyes," I whisper, "and make a wish."

Christmas-green eyes wander through mine before drifting shut. He inhales deeply, a frown of concentration creasing the smooth skin of his brow. His hand closes lightly around my fingers as he bends over the pristine swirls of icing, and with a sudden, sharp puff, the light whispers out. The darkness feels like a thing alive, its minty-static heartbeat pulsing at our joined fingertips. The world feels wrapped in soft, anticipatory silence, the quiet song of the rain outside only serving to intensify the absence of any other sound. Tentatively I stroke my thumb over the back of his hand, catching it on the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. I feel a shiver ripple through him, and he squeezes back. "Now what?" he murmurs.

I turn toward the shock of white hair, the only part of him clearly visible. "Now we eat it."

Warmth shimmers through the rich chocolate laugh that spills out of him. "Cake and wine for dinner," he chuckles. "I think I like birthdays." He quirks a brow at the three bottles set on the counter. "One bottle would have sufficed."

"Call it a head start." I pull out a corkscrew and make a token effort to open the first bottle. "I thought it could be a sort of project, while you're stuck here—trying to find a wine that tastes like Aggregio." Sheepishly I cease my futile twisting and hold the bottle out toward him. "Failing that, hopefully you'll at least _like _one of these."

Fenris rolls his eyes and pops the cork out of the bottle's neck with an efficient yank. His face is still, except for a brightness in his gaze I don't really recognize, as he sets it down with a gentle thunk. "How long have I been with you?" he asks quietly. "How long have I stayed here, in this place?"

_Four weeks, five days, and six hours, give or take those weird early morning-late night hours. _"About a month," I answer, striving for a matter-of-fact casualness I don't really feel. "Why?"

He doesn't answer immediately, only sniffs at the purple-ish stain on the cork with a sort of searching professionalism. Courtesy may prevent him from revealing too much of his disappointment, but I recognize the way his lips tighten, the half-beat of motionlessness as he regroups. "I think—I think I _escaped_ today."

The dam I've built around the reservoir of _discrepancies _and _questions_ shudders and threatens to crumble. I have no way of knowing for certain, of course—dates and times are fluid, flexible things, where he _comes _from—but as soon as he says it, I _know_ it's true. Guilt and sadness and jealousy churn my stomach into a roiling mess. _I don't belong here_. This and every other _moment _we've shared—I've stolen them from _her_. It should be Hawke here, sharing a bottle of wine and listening to the story of his escape. The story he's not telling, because we both know I know it, even if we never talk about _how_.

A distant roll of thunder underscores the sudden empty feeling as I step back to let him cut his cake._ He's not my boy_. "Look on the bright side," I chirp. My forced cheer sounds hollow in my own hears. "That last bottle of Aggregio will still be waiting for you when you go back."

"How do you know I had—ah." He follows my guilty, telling glance toward the Xbox console. "Of course." He scrapes icing and crumbs off the knife with one finger and meditatively brings it to his mouth (_my inner chef is deeply gratified when his eyelids flicker in sugar-induced raptures_). His eyes narrow thoughtfully as he searches my face. "Is that how you see me, then? A phantasmal disruption?" he asks, tone soft and threaded with danger. "And yet, you are in no hurry to be rid of me. Which is it?"

"It isn't that simple," I hedge desperately. Dams and hummingbirds, waves of _Inside_—I can't look at him as I start to collapse. "You're not supposed to be here, and yet you _are _here. You live in Danarius's _shithole _of a mansion for six-odd years, and never clean it, but you can't _stand _it if I leave a dish out." I'm in full-blown rant mode; all inclination towards flippancy and sarcasm takes wing in an attempt to escape the wrecking ball of chaos currently smashing through all my carefully-constructed coping mechanisms. I push past him out of the kitchen and start pacing the living room—he must be rubbing off on me. "_Hawke's _supposed to teach you how to read and you're supposed to _be _with her, and then you get your memories back but you lose them and you _leave _her. But you're—what, reading fucking _Dickens _now? I _hated _Dickens. You're reading Dickens and grabbing my hand and rolling me around on the floor on a daily basis." The air scalds my throat as I drag it past the aching vortex sucking away any pretense of reason. Thunder crackles, alarmingly close, as I sink onto the coffee table and scrub away tears I don't remember crying.

"So let me be certain I understand this," he clips out. "You're all bent out of shape—that was the phrase you used, yes?—because I'm _not _an illiterate slob who can't bear to be touched?"

This is what I get for putting off difficult conversations out of consideration for his delicate state of mind. I avoid his unblinking scrutiny and draw my knees to my chest, perching birdlike on the very edge of disaster. "When you put it like that it sounds—"

"Ridiculous?" He degenerates into muttered swearing as he crosses the distance between us and presses a too-full glass of ruby-colored wine into my numb fingers. He takes a deep pull straight from the bottle and grimaces. "_Venhedis, _not even close," he mutters. "You didn't answer my question. Which am I?"

Rain pounds into the living silence; I feel as though the next rumble of thunder claws inside of me and drags out the truth, scraping my throat raw. "You're just _you_," I whisper raggedly. "And I'm 'all bent out of shape' because I don't know what that _means_." I gulp down the wine in my glass and shudder with distaste. "Oh Jesus—swing and a miss. _Wide _miss."

"It isn't so bad," Fenris allows, thoughtfully swishing around what's left in the bottle. "It bothers you, doesn't it? Not knowing the _meaning _of things?" He pushes aside a stack of articles and sits beside me, markings tingling across the scant inches between our shoulders.

His tone is all wrong—it's low, almost _affectionate_. "You—you aren't angry?" I ask, stupid and stressed and _terrified _I've revealed too much. Or just enough. Because he's _smiling_—that soft, secret tilt to his lips that can rip me apart and stitch me back together again in the space of an instant.

"I asked first."

My focus narrows on the chipped polish on my bare toes; I try to pull even farther _away _from a conversation that can go _nowhere _and succeed in only wobbling on my perch. "Yes," I answer grudgingly. "It does bother me."

"_Vishante,_ getting a serious answer out of you is like pulling teeth," he comments lightly. His throat bobs rhythmically as he takes another deep swallow off the bottle before passing it to me. "You asked once if Kirkwall was ever my home," he continues softly. "My answer was no then, and it's no now. I was a _slave_, Erin," he growls fiercely. "An escaped slave living in the City of Chains. You've seen the statues, yes? Can you imagine what it was _like _for me, walking under those _every day_? To live in my former master's house, walk where he walked, sleep where he slept?" He shakes his head, frustrated and furious. "Of course you can't. You can't imagine what my life _was. _I would have left and moved on long ago, if it hadn't been for my debt to Hawke. She taught me to read, it's true." He snatches the bottle back and drains it. "But do I _miss _her? That was going to be your next question, no?" Lightning slices through the night; the thought drifts through my wine-muddled haze that it looks almost identical to Fenris's markings. _One thousand one, one thousand two—_

"No," he whispers. "No, I do not miss her."

_CRRAACKLE-KABOOM._

The kitchen light, the lights outside, every light on the block blinks out and leaves us in pitiless blackness. Scooter bumps the empty bottle in her frantic attempt to dig through the living room floor, and it tumbles off the coffee table with a hollow crash. I throw my arms around Fenris's neck and cling for all I'm worth. He drags me into his lap, shaking convulsively as he fists his hands in my sweater. I gasp and sob in terror into the lyrium-scented comfort of his shirt; I can't tell if he's swearing or praying as he mutters hoarse Tevinter into my hair. "Talk to me, _dulca_," he gasps urgently. "Anything."

_We're both afraid of thunderstorms_. It's a small thing, this commonality. But with it comes a small quiver of courage, enough to cease strangling him. "I think magisters must be a little bit inbred," I blurt. "Magic—as you've experienced it—it's either present or absent, right? That means it behaves like a Mendelian trait."

He seizes on the unfamiliar word like a lifeline. "What does that mean—Mendelian?"

"Gregor Mendel was monk," I explain breathlessly. "He did experiments with pea plants, cross-bred them to get different colors. Mendelian traits follow predictable lines of inheritance, depending on if they're dominant or recessive. It's probability, that's all."

"Magic must be a—what was it?—a dominant trait, then," he interrupts glumly. The shaking has subsided to the occasional shiver, and his grip on my sweater has loosened.

"Not necessarily—how common is it outside the Imperium? And Circle mages aren't really _encouraged _to breed, right? Anyway, back to the inbred thing." I'm babbling—I'll be lucky if he understands one word in six at the rate I'm going. "Magic's prized in Tevinter, but only among the nobility—the magisters. That means it's not a very large breeding population, which means it's not very diverse, which means eventually they're going to be useless, limp-dicked idiots."

"That's quite a leap," he chuckles. His arms tighten as a fresh wave of thunder shudders through the air. "Keep going. Please."

I talk him through Darwin, through the discovery of the double helix, and several obscure hunter-gatherer theories that have long gone out of fashion in certain circles. I'm halfway through the discovery of Lucy in the Ethiopian desert when light flickers back into the room. It bounces off the green-tinted glass fragments, scattered hazardously across the floor, throws our mingled and distorted shadows onto the opposite wall. _Now what?_

"Ah—hello," Fenris coughs awkwardly.

"Hi," I giggle back nervously. "Um. C-come here often?"

He snorts with laughter, stirring the hairs at the nape of my neck to attention. Gingerly he untangles us and stands, taking great care to avoid the shards of glass. It tinkles musically as he sweeps it into a pile; it's my turn not to blink as I watch him empty the dust pan into the garbage and fetch a second bottle of wine. And his cake. "You're staring at me again," he rumbles softly as he folds himself onto the couch beside me.

I don't shy away from it, this time. Jumping a man in a terrified frenzy tends to alter things. "I'm afraid you'll disappear if I blink, or look away." The wine is smooth and tart, but not harsh—I make a mental note of the label (_that I probably won't remember_). "I'm afraid you won't be here in the morning."

He doesn't say anything—he doesn't have to. "Well," he begins hesitantly, gaze fixed on a point somewhere above the television. "We have all this cake, and all this wine. If we ration them carefully we should last until morning."

I press my silly grin into his shoulder, not caring that he probably knows exactly what it looks like. He lifts his arm and curls it around my shoulders, bumping the crown of my head with his temple. "And we have all these Disney movies I promised you we'd watch," I add, deliriously pleased. The familiar heat coils low in my chest, turning the hummingbird into a tiny phoenix. "In the interest of demonstrating what passes for magic in our tragically-deprived realm." I scoot out from under his arm and rifle through my library of DVDs. "We'll start at the top."


	34. Sun keeps burning

**AN: **Happy Valentine's Day, everybody! (This was gonna be up earlier this morning, but RL-Boyfriend made me breakfast).

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><p>"Why a kiss?" Fenris asks quizzically. "It seems an odd thing, to endow such a small token with such power."<p>

We're in the kitchen, taking an official intermission after giving up on _The Little Mermaid. _For a man with an almost phobic dislike of seafood, "Under the Sea" was really the last straw (_I'm still subjecting him to the soundtrack, though_). But _Snow White _and _Sleeping Beauty _gave him enough to go on. The cake has been reduced to crumbs, the second bottle of wine emptied. It takes every ounce of bravery and willpower I have to leave the reassuring half-circle of his arm around my shoulders and do what one does after two bottles of wine. He keeps up a steady stream of muffled chatter through the bathroom door as he waits for his turn (_an opportunity I use to change into pajama pants_). It would be annoying, even borderline creepy, if not for the echo of my own unease I hear in his voice. Relief makes us giddy, even silly, when _nothing _happens—he emerges and gracelessly waltzes me into the kitchen for bacon and toast, hands cool and smelling of the bland oatmeal soap I keep next to the sink. I giggle helplessly into his chest as he spins me out of his arms and pops open the last bottle of wine. More bad ideas—I tip the bottle to my lips and let the deep, spiced warmth smolder in my belly, Sebastian crooning in the background.

"It's _true love's _kiss," I correct him officiously as I pass him the bottle. "Big difference."

"I—still don't understand."

"I think the idea is that true love is more powerful than any curse," I explain absently, poking at the bacon with a wooden fork. "It's a nice thought—that love can be magic, in its own way." I tip the bacon onto a plate and push bread into the toaster. "I've never been trapped in a cursed sleep, however, so I dunno."

"It's certainly something to think about," he muses. "In the unlikely event that that happens." He leans heavily on the counter as he takes a pull off the bottle (_and hums approvingly—it must be close. Or at least good_), but other than that betrays very little sign of his undoubtedly prodigious level of inebriation. Either that, or I'm just a lightweight (_sadly more likely_). "How long until dawn?"

"At least two more movies' worth," I answer after some quick calculation. "Maybe more. If you're still in the mood, that is."

"Am I still in the mood to watch a movie with a beautiful woman over breakfast and wine?" he asks incredulously. "You're not unintelligent, _mella, _but sometimes you ask truly daft questions."

Heat spreads from my cheeks, down my neck, and straight to my toes, curling with pleasure against the insides of my favorite Cookie Monster socks. "Wow," I drawl with unconvincing sarcasm as I close my fist around the neck of the bottle. "From beautiful and smart to daft in about a second. I may swoon."

Fenris smirks around a corner of toast. "It's been known to happen."

Wine and warmth dance in the air between us—it's probably the wine, but we're closer together than I remember standing a moment ago. I sway towards him as a shimmer of _new_, of _possibility _pulls me into the shy, urgent questions darting back and forth behind the forest-green gaze. It's a game of chicken; I'm not sure if I want to win or lose. I'm not sure if I'm even ready to find out. I tilt the other direction, clearing my throat ostentatiously and holding the wine bottle between us. "So, how'd I do?"

That damnable tease of a forelock flops into his face as he considers the half-full bottle I thrust into his hand. "Rather well, in fact," he replies with a smile. "You know how to pick a decent wine. But were any of them Aggregio?" He shakes his head, half-apologetic, half-teasing as he drinks deeply. "I'm afraid not."

His free hand claims mine and tugs me back into the living room. Back into limbo. Back into _waiting_. We manage to stretch the last bottle of wine through _Beauty and the Beast_; he watches the plot unfold with rapt, analytical attention and I see him come _this close _to putting the entire fabric of a puzzle together as Belle and The Beast twirl into a watercolor happily-ever-after. He spins the empty bottle on the coffee table with one hand—the other is still firmly entwined with mine.

"Penny for your thoughts," I venture softly.

Fenris blinks fuzzily at me. I wouldn't be surprised if it's the first time in an hour and a half he's remembered I'm here. "As soon as I understand them, _dulca,_" he sighs,"you may have them for nothing."

I glance out the window, at the deep night that always seems blackest right around three in the morning. I reluctantly extricate myself to swap out DVDs. _Princess and the Frog _wasn't one of my favorites, but we've come this far, and it's better than trying to fill the silent hours till dawn with _nothing_. I return to the couch and tuck myself under his arm—it's _easy_, the way we adjust and shift around each other until we're both comfortable. I should be worried. I should be at the other end of the sofa—leaving room for the Holy Ghost, as my mother would say. But all I can muster is a vague concern, inner voice finally silenced by alcohol and the constant beat of the miniature phoenix in my chest.

Fenris jostles me gently as he gets up to make a pot of coffee. I stand and try to stretch the languor out of my limbs, try to shake free of the numb haze that passes for sleep when you're determined to stay awake at all costs. Words have no place in this tense, weary vigil. Sharing, wanting—it all fades to background noise (_along with the movie_) as simply _surviving _becomes more important (_I hope I haven't misjudged the time left till dawn too badly; all I have left is _Tangled).

But somewhere in the celluloid cycle of beginnings and endings, the sky has begun to lighten.

I notice it first, and nudge Fenris's shoulder with my palm. Slowly he draws in a deep breath and lets it out, and the taut line of tension drawn across the breadth of his shoulders relaxes. An idea, an inkling of the _right _thing to do next occurs to us both at the same time. Wordlessly I lead him out of the apartment and around the backside of the building, where a set of stairs leads to a row of porches on the second floor. The after-storm wind has pushed back the thick blanket of clouds, leaving the sky in rumpled, peek-a-boo patches of mingled fluff and daybreak. We climb to the first landing and sit on the damp concrete, hands tangled together and eyes on the faint tinge of color to the east.

"I think I understand now," he says abruptly. "Magic. Or what passes for it here." I watch the rise and fall of his shoulders, sink into the bliss of his thumb absentmindedly stroking up and down the line of my index finger as I wait for him to continue. "You don't have a Fade. You don't _need _a Fade. You can do magic without it. And that _terrifies _me." He drags his gaze away from the narrow ribbon of pink and gold on the horizon; there is _something _in his face my brain doesn't recognize, but my tiny-phoenix heart suddenly _roars_, hot and loud, because _it _knows _exactly _what he means.

"Ancient peoples believed certain times of day were powerful," I venture quietly. "Sunset. Sunrise. Times like this." I glance at the brightening dazzle of color in the eastern sky, and feel the call of some primal _knowing _sing in my blood. I turn a tremulous smile into his face, hazy in the fog of unspoken questions and answers swirling in the narrow space between our faces. "I think they were on to something."

_On your mark. Get set—_

"_Dulca?_"

"Yeah?"

_Sweet Jesus, his eyes are HUGE. _"I think you have my full attention."

_Go._

The breath catches somewhere between my lungs and my throat as the distance between us closes. I feel his shaky exhalation ghost across my cheek as his mouth grazes mine, tentative and searching. Gently I push my lips more deeply into his, hoping it's the answer he needed. He inhales sharply and shakes his hand free of mine to cradle my face in his lyrium-etched palms, holding me still as his kiss _pours _into me. All I can do is curl my fingers around his wrists and hang on for dear life.

It's impossible to say how long we're there, locked together (_it's considered rude to time a first kiss, after all_). But when we break apart, with shy smiles and hot cheeks, it's to the sight of the sun, banishing the last of the clouds with a spill of liquid gold.

* * *

><p><strong>AN again: <strong>Normally I'd be more than happy to let y'all pick your own song for something like this, but I found their song yesterday: "Lost and Found" by Eve 6. Go find it on YouTube and give it a listen. You'll see I'm right.


	35. I feel like a naked hermit crab

**AN: **I am so, SO sorry for the fake-out, guys; I put this up before I was ready, and regretted it. Many thanks to **Taffia **for holding my hand through the post-update editing process (seriously, I'm considering getting her a small country as a thank-you); as always, thank you all for the kind words, the constructive criticism, and for sticking with me!

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><p>"Okay, I'm here. What's up?"<p>

I squeeze my coffee mug between my palms as Helena's face flickers onto my laptop screen. Perhaps it should bother me that the only time my sister and I look anything alike is when she's not wearing makeup and has a towel wrapped around her head. But it doesn't; I'm used to it and the need to _share_, to talk to my _sister _is too big for such little regrets. I straighten away from the couch cushions and flash my webcam a giddy, quicksilver smile. "We kissed," I start without preamble. "Fenris and I kissed."

Her china-blue eyes widen in delight over the rim of her coffee mug. "Omigod you have to tell me _everything!_" she exclaims happily. "Wait, he's not there, is he?" She peers into her webcam, as though expecting him to come around the corner.

"No," I assure her hurriedly, "he's at work. Tattoo parlor," I explain succinctly at her rabid-quizzical expression. "So, it turns out yesterday was his birthday—"

The story skips out in the twisted, jumbled language all girls seem to speak. We squeal and giggle in the right places; I let her _see _all my bright, wonderful confusion no one else would understand. _I _don't really understand. "Sweetie, you've got it _bad_," she laughs. She dislodges the towel with a toss of her head, ruffling the damp cascade of unjustly perfect hair with one hand. "And who wouldn't? So what are you gonna do now? I mean is this _official _yet?"

"Well, he's officially a good kisser," I muse. The miniature me on my screen brings her fingers to her lips, fixed in a feline smile. I make myself stop as Helena smirks smugly. "I don't see why I have to _do _anything," I continue. "All we did was kiss."

She rolls her eyes exasperatedly. "You kissed while watching the sun come up after staying up all night watching Disney movies," she reminds me dryly. "You texted me with 'Skype and coffee right fucking now'. And you're stupid nuts about him."

It's a refreshing change of pace, really—arguing with another human being instead of with myself. It's harder to lie to Helena, for one thing. "Yeah," I admit with a sheepish, face-splitting smile. "I am." I cough self-consciously and tuck a stray lock of hair behind my ear. "So, what's new with you?"

"Besides finally having a reason to live vicariously through you?" she laughs. "I had dinner last night with Mom—you know how she gets when Dad works out of town." She focuses on a point somewhere to the left of the camera as she dusts powder over her face with a long-handled makeup brush. "Do you know if Fenris plans to join us for Christmas?" she asks casually.

"We haven't really talked about it," I reply, frowning. "Was Mom okay?"

"She's fine. Empty nesting, you know the drill. Anyway, she and I were talking, and it comes out that Poppy wants us all out there for Christmas." A muscle twitches under her flawless jawline as she combs mascara into her eyelashes. "He's not doing too well," she continues softly.

A forgotten maw of sorrow and fear springs open as I watch my little sister don her armor, in her own way. I suppose that's one more way my sister and I are alike: very few mechanisms for coping with anything more serious than gossip. She ducks out of view of the camera and comes back wielding a hairdryer the size of a bazooka. It whirs like a leaf blower, drowning out all possibility of audible conversation for the next fifteen minutes. "So what's the plan?" I ask, feeling like a heel for not _being _there (_and for still feeling giddy over the whole kissing thing despite her being upset_).

"There's no real concrete plan yet," she says dismissively, pursing _very _pink lips together. "More an idea. Mom and Dad have racked up enough miles to fly both of you into New Bern. There's a flight out of Austin on the twenty-second. It's just an idea, of course," she concludes airily, as though it made no difference whatsoever whether we end up in North Carolina for Christmas or not.

"I'll talk to Fenris," I promise her. "See what kind of time Mark's letting him have for the holidays."

Helena beams from behind her sleek curtain of chestnut waves. "I gotta go, babe—Corinne wants me at Strings by five. Let me know what Fenris says and I'll tell Mom. And wear something pink tonight."

She blows me a kiss and winks, and slams her laptop shut before I can protest I don't _own _anything pink (_well, nothing I'm willing to show Fenris, at any rate_). Scooter twitches at my feet as I set my laptop on the coffee table and stretch out full-length on the couch. My eyes slowly drift shut; every sense I possess sags in exhaustion into the well-worn sofa, heavy with Fenris's scent. I sink into the minty-static comfort, coasting happily on twenty-four hours of caffeine, alcohol and sleep deprivation all playing havoc in my system. It's a curious sensation, discovering I'm willing to surrender to…_whatever _this is (_once I push past the neurotic tendency towards panic_). Even more curious, I find I'm not nearly as panicked about it as I thought I would be.

Night thoughtlessly cuts in line once afternoon has had its turn, entirely skipping evening. I can't say what wakes me. It's not a sound, or even a feeling, so much as it is a sudden and fundamental awareness of something _wrong_—a change in the character of the silence around me. I cast my gaze around the dark living room, illuminated only by the steady glow of the lights in the complex's courtyard. The shadows and silhouettes in my living room are all where they should be, unsettling but familiar. Everything _looks _fine. But it's just _not_.

My heartbeat stutters as Binx leaps soundlessly onto the back of the couch, sleek black fur bristling furiously. He hunches into a nervous crouch, less than a foot above my head, attention riveted on…_nothing_. I shrink into a protective ball, ending with my knees practically in my eye sockets at one end of the sofa. It would take more courage than I think I possess to unfurl one arm and reach for the lamp on the end table, to switch off the fear like I used to do as a child. But then a feline growl of warning rumbles down from the top of the cat tower, where I know Virgil sleeps, and I know I would rather brave the menacing darkness for the split second it would take to click on the light than cower in the dark, _listening_ but not seeing.

The light doesn't help much with the _seeing _part—if anything, it makes it worse. Now I can clearly _see _Virgil and Binx, glaring with wide, dark eyes at _nothing _in the center of the room. Some feeble part of my brain, a part still governed by logic, wants to believe they're staring at each other, posturing for some mysterious boy-cat reason. But the rest of me, ruled by instinct (_and a particularly vicious imagination that delights in reminding me of every horror movie trope, ever_), knows they see something I don't.

I roll into a sitting position, knees drawn tightly into my chest and clenching my ankles so _nothing _won't see my hands tremble. Virgil continues to growl, striped tail swishing wildly in agitation. Binx hisses at my elbow and joins his voice to Virgil's. The sounds crescendo into twin piercing yowls of anger, fear and indignation, but I don't dare move other than to flinch. I don't even blink, and I _still _miss it. No transition, no flash of lightning, not even the courtesy of a sudden, inexplicable fog—_nothing _is simply and abruptly a man, dressed in a long jacket of blue cloth and brown leather. The clusters of feathers at his shoulders stir in a breeze I can't feel, and one sturdy-looking hand is clenched in a white-knuckled grip around a staff with a blade at one end.

_It's happening again_.

He needs no more introduction than Fenris or even Merrill did. "Why you?" I demand sharply (_you'd think "how" or even "what the fuck" would be first, but you'd be wrong_). Scooter slinks out of the bedroom and _snarls_—the sound should frighten me, but I'm only grateful I'm not entirely alone.

His brown eyes flash a dangerous, fiery blue as he turns them on me. I _will not _look away; I _will not _blink. I meet his otherworldly glare with every ounce of steel and stubborn, foolish bravado I can muster. Full lips twist in an amused smile, and he looks like he might answer. But then he starts to _burn_—hands, clothes, the ridiculous feathers—and my meager courage flees. "_I can't feel it!_" he roars, as though with two voices. He turns that hot, punishing glare on me in merciless accusation. "_WHAT DID YOU DO?"_

He charges toward me; faster than I would have thought possible, I push myself over the back of the couch with my legs, coiled into springs beneath me. _Wake up, Erin! Wake up, wake up, wakeupwakeupwakeupwakeup— _I scamper away from the searing heat of eerie, blue flames and try to regain my footing on more solid ground. _Why can't I wake up?_

Easy. Because I'm not asleep.

I scream, helpless with fear, as this…_creature _chases me through the living room. He's _fast_—spooky-ghost-fast. None of my lessons with Fenris prepared me for…for _this_. My knee catches on the corner of the coffee table, and I go sprawling. All that work, learning to defend myself from one danger, and I'm going to die like _this_. Scooter's angry-scared barking is _the_ last sound I am going to hear. I'm not brave enough to face it head-on; with a gasping sob, I close my eyes and try to picture Fenris's face. _My _Fenris.

It isn't so bad, being gruesomely murdered. It hurts for a minute—hot and searing and _everywhere_. Something crashes and thumps on the periphery of whatever senses I have left—the Pearly Gates, if I'm lucky—and the terrible, merciless heat is driven away. Gravity ceases to have meaning. I go from burning to freezing to just warm as a whiff of mint and static tickles my nose, as I let go and feel myself floating upwards. _Not a bad send-off, all things considered_—

I jerk into consciousness with a splash. A chaotic tangle of first impressions jumbles in and out of order. I'm warm, wet, and—second-most alarming, in my book—clad only in my bra and underpants (_at least they match_).

First place for most alarming is the fact that _I'm not alone_.

"You're awake," Fenris rumbles tonelessly. "That's—that's good."

Water laps at the sides of the bathtub as I slowly sit, gasping at the unexpected pain. _Everything _hurts—I squeeze my eyes shut against a crippling wave of nausea and pillow my cheek on the faux-ceramic side of the tub. Wordlessly he unfolds my glasses and carefully arranges them on my face, tucking my hair out of the way so it doesn't snag on the springs. _No one_ has ever taken such care with me before—not in recent memory, not since I grew old and distant enough to prefer taking care of myself. Panic and tenderness push tears out of the way, leaving me with only one defense. "You know, if you wanted me naked—"

"Don't," he snaps frostily. "Just _don't_." He pushes off the toilet and rips a clean towel off the rack. "Can you stand? Or do I have to dive in to get you?"

The full effect of my feminine disdain for such grudging assistance is ruined by the fact that my glasses are fogging up. I clench my jaw against a fresh surge of dizziness as I struggle to my feet. I wobble dangerously as I lift one foot out of the tub, and could kill myself with shame when he has to catch me in the towel. "My, aren't we in a snit," I remark mildly, righting myself. "Bad day at the office, dear?"

"I said _don't_." He knows my injuries better than I do—with infinite care he wraps and tucks the oversized towel around my damp shoulders and coerces me onto the lid of the toilet seat. He prowls out of the bathroom, presumably to find dry clothes. The fact that he does so _silently_ is a better indication of his anger than any profane tirade Tevinter or English could provide. The only bruise I recognize is the one on my knee, from banging into the coffee table; I feel another sore spot on my ribs from landing on the floor. The rest of my _hurt _is invisible—I feel scorched and bruised and weak as a kitten, but can't understand _why_.

Fenris returns with a warm bundle of flannel and wool (_and dry unmentionables_). His features are locked in the taut, stoic mask I've grown accustomed to _not_ seeing. _This _Fenris is a stranger—this is not the Fenris I kissed only this morning (_or is it, and I've just conveniently forgotten?_) I shrink away from his hands as he moves to unwrap the towel. "Don't," I command quietly.

He hisses a hot Tevinter oath, mask crumbling at the edges. The tightrope tension of his mouth coils, as if I've _hurt _him, and I almost take it back—I almost submit to the barely-restrained temper in his hands, let him dress me as though I were no more than four. But I have my pride, _and _a temper, tattered though they may be. I tilt my chin to its most stubborn angle (_which brings with it a shooting pain straight into my cranium_) and try to focus on glaring at him. He gives up after a few heartbeats, breaking off the staring contest with another string of oaths. He shuts the door behind him as he stalks out; even though I've gotten what I wanted, I still feel like I've lost, somehow.

My body screams in protest as I force myself to stand, to move. It takes several heretofore unknown feats of tender acrobatics just to wiggle into the dry underwear, not to mention the effort of willpower it takes to not cry out in agony as I twist into the bra. A cold sweat builds on my skin as I push my limbs into the pajama pants and long-sleeved t-shirt. A pair of bright blue, fuzzy socks falls out of the sweater as I weakly tug it over my head. My eyes sting forebodingly: I've been chased, knocked over, injured in ways I'm probably never going to understand, and I'm fairly certain I was _dead_ for a few seconds. But it takes my Cookie Monster socks falling out of a sweater that smells faintly like Fenris to really drive it home. I sink onto the edge of the bathtub, bury my face in my hands, and just _cry_.

Fenris is waiting in the hallway when I emerge, expression inscrutable. He presses a mug of something hot and pungently herbal into my hands. The fragrant steam wafts across my dulled, exhausted senses—it smells like lemongrass and henna and dirt. "Elfroot," he explains curtly at my exploratory sniff. "I found some in my armor."

I can't remain upright and hold a mug at the same time. I push it back into his hands and limp into my bedroom, crawling between my covers and dragging them over my head. "Elfroot isn't real," I mutter belligerently.

He dogs my steps, setting the mug down on my nightstand with a sharp _thunk _of ceramic on wood. "Just drink it," he orders tiredly. "I'm not supposed to be real, either." I poke my head out of my nest as he wheels my desk chair closer to the bedside. He flops pointedly into the cushy, faux-suede depths and spins once.

He's impossible to ignore—he practically excretes _presence_, taking up every spare inch of space with the sprawl of his limbs, the arrogant twitch of one eyebrow. I struggle painfully into a half-sitting position, wise enough to pick my battles. I have no doubt he can and will force-feed me whatever's in that cup. I sip cautiously at the liquid's surface. It tastes like it smells—strange, but hardly poisonous, and not entirely unpleasant. The sharp, mind-boggling pain fades almost instantly into a hazy throb in the back of my mind. I drain my cup under the weight of his watchful silence, unable to hold his gaze for more than a second at a time. I can't tell if I'm actually healing, or if the elfroot concoction has just dulled my senses past all feeling. I decide I don't care; Fenris plucks the cup from my limp grasp and sets it aside. My glasses are knocked askew as I start the slow topple into exhausted oblivion—he sets those aside too. "I don't understand," I mumble thickly, yawning. "What happened? What's wrong?"

Mutely, Fenris shakes his head, as though my questions were a swarm of insects he wished to escape, and slides a book off my bookshelf. He resettles into the chair, spinning to face the window. "Later," he states flatly. "Rest."

I try to focus on the blurry line of his profile, the tumble of snow-white hair and the sharp points of his ears. Blindly I reach for him with one hand, eyes already firmly closed. My fingertips brush against a smooth expanse of skin and lyrium, and he stills warily. "Don't be angry," I plead softly.

The air shifts subtly as he spins back around and gently folds my hand into his. "I'm not angry at you," he assures me resignedly. Pages whisper against each other as he turns them one-handed. "Sleep, _dulca_," he urges. "I'll be here."

_Red Riding Hood with a twist_. _Girl alone in bed; grouchy, worried wolf standing guard. _The thought seems important; I hold it close like a talisman as I wander through the labyrinthine paths of sleep and dreams, guided by a minty-static lullaby.


	36. Concerning emotional rollercoasters

I wake in a limbo of predawn gray and muted birdsong. Everything—head to toe, bones to skin, right to left—_everything _aches, in ways completely novel to me. The nearest thing to it I have for comparison is that post-workout soreness, (_or a really bad hangover_) but even that pales in significance next to this all-consuming pulse of just…_pain._ Simply _breathing _is exercise in willpower; with every breath I feel like I'm trying to push back against the pressure of an anvil on my ribs.

And believe it or not, this is an _improvement _over last night.

Awareness stitches together slowly as I recognize my aching composite parts as belonging to a whole aching body. _My _body. And I'm _hot_—I feel like I'm trapped underneath an electric blanket. In July. I twitch and stretch under my covers, vainly seeking a cooler section of sheets. The pain doesn't stab so much as throb, and not nearly as intensely as I was afraid it would. I think it's the first time in at least ten hours I've _moved_—I haven't changed positions or anything since my collapse into oblivion last night. Memory starts to return in scattered pieces, miasmic with confusion and fear, and suddenly it doesn't matter that I'm hot and I hurt. It has to be better than—than whatever _happened_.

There's an unfamiliar dip at the edge of my mattress, somewhere around my knees, and an extra weight in my hand. My eyelids crack open of their own volition; without my glasses, all I see are indistinct shapes and fuzzy colors, but the moon-white hair and tight curve of the spine are no less familiar. Fenris is still slumped in the desk chair, head pillowed on the very edge of the mattress and hand still loosely curled around mine.

_Ah, crap_. My chest constricts fiercely, and it has nothing to do with the lingering squeeze of pain that still makes it hard to breathe. I stare at his blurred outline, filling in the details from memory. I slide my hand out from under his and brush the fine, tangled locks away from his face with my fingertips. _Ah, __**crap**_**.**

Fenris's hand shoots out and closes around my wrist as my pinky brushes the tip of his ear. He softens the sharp gesture by threading his fingers through mine. "That tickles," he grumbles sleepily.

"Sorry," I murmur. I fish for my glasses with my free hand and point with my chin at his cramped posture. "That can't be comfortable."

"I manage." He rolls his head on his neck, flexing and stretching his shoulders. "How do you feel?"

"Awful," I answer bluntly. "But alive."

He wheels the chair closer and presses his palm against the pulse in my neck, and nods to himself at the steady tap-tap of my heartbeat under my skin. "We have much to discuss," he sighs heavily, letting his hand fall away.

"I know." I stifle a pained moan as I sit up and wrestle out of my sweater. I sag against my pillows, panting. "D'you wanna start or should I?"

"Ladies first," he defers with the faintest of smirks. "What happened?"

I rub my eyes under my glasses, trying to separate the facts from the fear. "I don't know, exactly," I start uncertainly. "It just—_happened. _I was taking a nap, and woke up. The cats started going nuts, and then he just _appeared_." My hand snags on a snarl in my hair as the fear hiccups in my brain. "I thought it was gonna be okay, at first," I continue shakily. "You know, okay for—for lately. But then he went all—_glow-y_. I tried fighting him off. I really did. But he was fast. Faster than you, even. I couldn't—" I ball my hands into fists, trying to control their trembling. "He started chasing me," I resume after a few deep breaths. "I fell and—" _died _"—passed out." I shrug helplessly. "The next thing I remember after that is waking up in the tub." I try for a superior leer and mostly fail. "Maybe _you _should start with your sudden urge to see me naked," I suggest.

Imagine my surprise when that's _exactly _where he starts. "You were so _cold_," he says softly, gaze fixed on the ceiling. "I am sorry if—"

"Don't sweat it, babe," I interrupt shortly, humbled and feeling guilty for teasing him. "Just…what happened?"

Fenris sinks into the depths of the chair, expression haunted. "I could hear Scooter barking from the parking lot," he begins slowly. "But then my markings—" He clenches his fists, face hardening into the taut, angry mask I saw last night. "Magic. The sort I'm used to. I could _feel _it—coming from inside." He bursts into a motion, a blur of ink and lyrium as he rakes his hand through his hair and starts to pace. "He was here," he continues tightly. "And yet he wasn't. He looked at me—_saw _me. He burned _through _you. And then he was gone." He slams his fist into the side of the bookshelf, practically quaking with rage. "I've been a fool," he growls. He halts and faces the window, spine erect and hands clasped tightly behind his back. "A world without magic—I _knew_ it was impossible."

_He's not my boy. _

_But he's _my_ Fenris. _

"Oh, don't you _fucking _dare!" I toss my covers aside and stumble across the carpet. I've forgotten about the pain; I have to hook my hand around his elbow to keep my balance, and he scowls fiercely at the uninvited contact. "Don't you _dare _start with the lonesome brooding bullshit, just because—"

"Magic _kills!_" he shouts furiously. "It maims, it tortures—it did _this_!" His markings flash as his temper scalds through the air between us. "That _thing _burned all the heat out of you and left you for dead. And _still _you do not understand! Magic is good for _nothing_."

_And yet_—"Just yesterday you thought it might be," I point out, quiet and raw with hurt. I fold my arms across my chest, trying to stay warm after the tiny fire in my heart sputters. "Know what? Fine. Forget it." He's seen me in my underwear—_damned _if I'll let him see me cry over a stupid kiss. I spin away from him as fast as my aches and pangs will permit and stalk (_limp_) toward the bedroom door. "I'm making coffee. And then I'm gonna figure out what's going on." It's like seeing double as I glare at his back—spikes and armor and cotton t-shirt all blending together in one messy image. "You can join me, or not. Your choice."

I ride the steam of my anger into the kitchen; I cling to it as I grind the dark, fragrant beans and dump them into the filter. But it can't last. All my hurts (_an achy-breaky heart counts_) catch up with me, and I fold like a bad hand of poker. My legs crumple under my weight and I squeeze my eyes shut, cheek pressed into the wooden floor. Last night, this past _month—_it's too big for tears. Too big for a person. Every breath I drag into my lungs hollows me out, carves holes in me that weren't there before. But I keep breathing, because I'm just _so damn grateful _to be _alive_. Even if I don't fully understand…well, _anything_.

Water hisses into the glass carafe as the telltale tingling musk crashes against my senses. I pretend I'm not listening as Fenris's bare feet step over me into the kitchen, as he fills the reservoir and turns on the coffee maker. I jerk reflexively away as he brushes my shin with the top of his foot. "This would be easier if you weren't in the way," he grouses.

"New motto?" I retort, dripping with acid sweetness.

"Enough," he snaps. "For once, spare me your quips and just _hear _me."

I squint resentfully at him over the rims of my glasses, bitterly regretting the fact that I'm mostly blind unless I'm looking _through_ the lenses. Fenris takes my silence for acquiescence; the air stirs as he smoothly folds into a cross-legged position beside me. "I miss the weight of a sword in my hand," he says softly. "And I miss knowing, with absolute certainty, how the world around me _works. _I _hated _my life," he seethes. "But at leastit wouldn't _change_. I haven't had to be what I _am_. Not here. It's been—like a dream," he sighs, almost reverently. "But I _am _what I am. To try to be anything else is folly. And it nearly got you killed. If I had been here instead of doodling on some drunkard's ass cheeks—"

"Seriously? _That's _your argument?" My palm slaps against the floor as I laboriously push myself into an upright position. "It's your fault I was hurt because you were _working_?"

"_I don't know what I'm doing!" _

I gape at him as he shoots to his feet. Ceramic rattles violently as he snatches two mugs out of the cupboard and roughly scoops sugar into both of them. It isn't hard to imagine he'd so much rather be swinging around a blade as long as I am. "I'm not running," he continues harshly. "I should be, but I'm not. Tell me why."

"I can't read your mind, babe," I argue weakly.

"But you _know _me, do you not? So—"

"I know you're an insufferable grouch," I interrupt angrily. "You like spicy food and you put fucking _peanut butter _on pizza last week just to see if it'd taste good. Which it didn't. You talk in your sleep and your favorite color—I don't actually _know _your favorite color but you love sweets and hate fish and—"

"Enough!" he cuts me off. "_Venhedis, _woman—"

"I don't know you—I don't know why you're not running any more than you do. And I don't know what _I'm_ doing either!" I drag a breath into my burning lungs, and I force myself to keep going. "Up until a month ago I knew _exactly_ how my life worked. How it was _always _going to work. And the _only _thing that's kept me from completely losing my shit on a daily basis is knowing—_hoping_ I'm not alone." I want to badly to _get up_, to _move_—I even try to stand and have to bite my lip against a fresh throb of lingering pain as my legs refuse to cooperate. I don't want to look at him; I don't want to face that hard, emerald scowl as I struggle against all the myriad unknowns that are suddenly and inescapably my life.

"Oh, for—come here." Fenris sets his mug aside and with exquisite gentleness, tugs my arms around his neck. His hands settle around my waist; he lifts and steadies me on my feet as his palms find the small of my back. "_Venhedis, _woman,you're exhausting."

"Yeah, well," I mutter sourly into his shoulder, limp and unresponsive as a noodle. "You're no picnic yourself. What are you doing?"

I rise and fall with his chest. His breath shudders across my scalp; lyrium and coffee and everything he _is _shudders between us in a sigh that feels like it costs him more than I will ever understand. "Choosing," he whispers hoarsely.

A sharp inhalation. A sudden, small vacuum of space. And suddenly his mouth covers mine with a heady fusion of fear and hunger. His embrace is as much a trap as it is support: I have nowhere to go but headlong into the fray. No choice but to push back, with everything I have left. The edge of the countertop digs painfully into my back as I ball my fists in his t-shirt and yank him closer. It hurts—it hurts like _fuck_. But I'll take it. Because there's a fire in his eyes when he pulls away, and a tiny smile on his lips (_those oh-so-kissable lips_) as he presses his forehead to mine.

And whispers, "Where do we start?"


	37. Something about Geertz and turtles

Fenris eyes the Xbox controller in my hands with the adamant distrust normally reserved for sleeping tigers. "Is this _really _necessary?" he asks for the umpteenth time.

I shrug, half-apologetically as the console sings on, as I resume the game I started the night he arrived. "We've been dancing around this for two days because you wanted me to wait for your day off," I point out. "I'm out of ideas."

"We must have missed something," he insists stubbornly. He glances at the sheets of notebook paper we've taped to the wall, covered with our combined ideas. I've labeled one sheet _Texas_—it's covered with precise, detailed accounts of each encounter with…well, _someone_, each with his or her own little column. My half-print, half-cursive scrawl loops almost playfully around his sharp, blocky letters (_and for some reason, that image makes me really happy_). The sheet I've labeled _Kirkwall_, however, is depressingly blank, save for a single line scribbled here and there (_and don't even get me STARTED on the "Flemeth" page_).

"We're missing the entire _other half_ of…whatever this is," I reply distractedly, already absorbed in the game's action. "And I don't know of _any _other place to start looking."

His gaze is still fixed on the wall of notes and half-baked theories, surrounded by charts and weather reports. "So we've merely spent the last two days organizing our combined ignorance," he snorts in frustration.

"Collecting data," I amend, flashing him a smile. "Collecting data and looking for a connection."

Fenris makes some inarticulate noise of masculine distress as the miniature _him _on-screen falls (_I adjust the difficulty level and a few tactics slots so THAT doesn't happen again_). "Connections, yes," he pants. "Connections are fine. But—must we look for them _here_?"

I pause the game and scoot closer to him on the couch. He jerks his eyes away from the television as my knee bumps his. Instinctively I fold my hands into his, tightening my grip when he squeezes back. "This can wait," I say definitively. "I'll do this part tomorrow, while you're at work. I'll take _very _detailed notes—"

"I am no coward," he interrupts with a growl. "If this must be done, I am with you." I don't have a name for his expression: it's keen discomfort, rapt attention, and sick fascination all rolled up in twisted rictus of _blank_. "And as you said, we've been avoiding this for the last two days." He swallows hard and repeats, "I am with you." He nods at the controller, face hard with determination. I pick up the bulky black handset in numb fingers, thumb hovering over the "Resume" button. "Be gentle with me, _dulca_," he deadpans.

I'm going to need both my hands. But I nudge his arm out of the way with my shoulder and press my back into his side. He stiffens, but only for half a second, before slowly settling his arm around the front of my shoulders. The air shudders in and out of him; I find myself breathing in time with the expansion and contraction of his ribs against my back. We stay like that, curled together like pieces of ribbon, as I blitz us through the first act. He ducks his face into the hollow of my neck (_Christ and Cocoa Puffs and is THAT distracting_) and groans a steady stream of Tevinter prayers and swears as I guide Hawke through Kirkwall, through quests that suddenly aren't just quests anymore. They're someone's _life_. _His _life. Fenris's grip on my shoulders tightens convulsively, and I know, without knowing _how _I know, that it means he _remembers_ what's happening as the game disc spins in the console's tray.

Sometimes I forget that research, whatever the form, has its downsides.

I call a halt around sundown, just before heading into the Deep Roads. Even at my breakneck pace, Act I has taken us most of the day. I'm hungry, and the sheer _weirdness _of what we're doing is a constant, tinny buzz in the back of my mind. I untangle myself from Fenris's arm and stretch the stiffness out of my limbs.

"What is it?" he demands. "Why did you stop?"

"Because I'm tired," I reply shortly. "I'm hungry, and could use a break. You probably could too."

"I'm _fine_," he snaps.

I give him a long, critical look. There are furrows in the hair on one side of his head from all the times he's raked his free hand through the snow-white mess. He's gone pale underneath the permanent tan, and I know for a fact he hasn't eaten anything either. "No, you're not," I state with authority. We all have our areas of expertise; Rip-van-Winkling through eight straight hours of research (_and the crappy feeling afterwards_) happens to be one of mine. Ditto for barely clinging to the edge of sanity (_but that's recent_). "An hour," I promise. I whistle for Scooter and clip on her leash. "An hour to eat and stretch our legs."

He stares hard, and for a moment I think he's going to refuse on principle. But then his stomach growls revealingly. He heaves a sigh of grudging defeat and pushes himself off the couch. "An hour, then," he concedes reluctantly.

We end up at a trailer park eatery. It's a riot of international cuisine (_or what a college town THINKS is international cuisine_), taco stands nestled beside noodle bars and curry huts. I sense more than hear Fenris's deep inhalation as he draws in the olfactory cacophony. "_Why_ must you be right?" he grumbles, loping off to one of the taco stands.

I savor the opportunity to just _watch _him while I wait in line for chicken satay (_creeper Erin is creeping, I know_). He's about as inconspicuous as a parrot among pigeons, with the neat, blue-white lines of his markings poking out of the long-sleeved t-shirt, the shock of white hair, and the elven features. But he's _used _to this—this modern-life business. He shouldn't _fit_, staring pensively at the menu with the rest of the small crowd and piling extra jalapeños onto the mess of beef, rice and beans. But he does. And I _like _it. I _like _that he fits.

Even though I know he _doesn't_.

Fenris watches impassively as I slide the pieces of chicken into a bowl of sticky white rice. "How is this possible?" he asks abruptly. "Any of it."

"You know I don't know," I reply softly.

"I have spent an entire day watching my _life _unfold at _your _hands," he continues as if I hadn't spoken. "My life, which is also a story, which is also—what? A toy?"

"It's a whole new level of weird, even for us," I agree uncertainly. "Are you okay?"

A puff of mirthless laughter stirs the white fringe that's dropped into his face. "No. Just—just tell me there is a point to this."

"There is," I try to reassure him. "I think. It's kind of a crackpot idea, but if your being, uh, _here _changes anything _there_, maybe it'll show up somehow."

"And if it doesn't?"

I shrug casually as I throw away my garbage and untie Scooter from the picnic table. "Negative results are still results," I tell him with a chipper smile. "If the gameplay doesn't change, we can close that line of inquiry and open new ones."

The streetlights turn his eyes to obsidian pinpricks as he scowls darkly at me. "You're _enjoying _this," he accuses me incredulously.

_Oh Jesus_. This toeing the line between rigorous scientific inquiry and walking on eggshells is exhausting. Time to come clean. "Yeah, okay," I state bluntly. "I am. But not for the reasons you're afraid of."

"Which are what, exactly?" he sneers, folding his arms across his chest.

"You're afraid I get off on this," I answer with quiet conviction. "Playing God, playing with the lives of people you _knew_." He gapes at me (_ha, guess I was right_) as I continue softly, "But that's not it. I'm enjoying this because even though the situation is fucked up, and I mean _fucked up_, I'm back in my element. Doing research," I clarify at his blank stare. "Finding answers. I'm _good _at it. It's nice to be doing what I'm good at, for once."

Heavy, thoughtful silence swells in the empty spaces between the jingle of Scooter's tags and the tap-tap of my sneakers on concrete. Our shadows stretch beneath us as we pass under the streetlights, skip behind us as we climb the steps to my front door. I shove my hands into the pockets of my hoodie, leash and all, and try to ignore the fact that I'd much rather be reaching for his hand. "Can I ask you something?"

"Is it possible to stop you?" he retorts, still crackling with temper.

It's a deliberate (_not to mention risky_) choice, taking that as a yes. "What were you doing on the Wounded Coast in the first place? Y'know, before you ended up here."

"Why is _that _important?"

"It'll give me an idea of when to stop." _Screw it. _I curl my hand around the crook of his elbow and spin him to face me. "Listen—if I could make this _less weird_, I would." The dim glow from the porch light plays across his face, leaving it in shadow as I fruitlessly search for a reaction. "You _have _to know that."

His markings tickle against my fingertips as he gently slides out of my grasp and pushes my door open. On bare, silent feet he pads into the kitchen and starts a pot of coffee, face hidden as he resolutely puts his back to the living room. The gurgle and drip of the coffee maker, the ethereal lilting of the game's background music—all just _noise _that scoops through the oppressive quiet and trickles back into the empty space. I perch on the edge of the coffee table, eyes on the note-wall. _Maybe he's right—maybe we should be looking _here _instead of in the game_—

"It started out as an ordinary day." Fenris's soft baritone cuts through my deepening angst with the finality of a blade. "They always did. Hawke asked me to accompany her on some errand—do you know, I didn't even care what it was," he interrupts himself. "Anything to get out of that—that shithole, as you call it. The Viscount wanted one thing, the Arishok another, and somehow we ended up on the Wounded Coast, pinned down by marauders with some of the city guard. And then—" He steps into the living room and hands me a mug of coffee (_complete with cream and sugar_), and waves his hand illustratively at the couch. "You know the rest."

My slow sigh of relief raises tiny, aromatic waves across the surface of my mug. "_That_, I can work with," I say brightly. The confident certainty I feel is a welcome strangeness after so much _doubt_, so much _fear_. We fold back into each other on the couch, picking up right where we left off. "You still with me, babe?" I ask softly.

My hair rustles dryly against his cheek as he nods. "Somehow I doubt I'll like the Deep Roads any better the second time," he sighs resignedly, and tucks me more securely into his side.

I speed us through the end of Act I (_and he was right—he doesn't like it any better the second time_). We swap out coffee for something a little more toxic and mind-numbing, as things start getting down to the wire. The sickly sweet symmetry of the alcohol hangs in the air like a fog, pregnant with all the things that have changed. All the ways we've _both _changed.

"Blue," Fenris blurts abruptly, breath salty with tequila and lime. "Deep sky blue."

"Come again?"

"My favorite color is deep sky blue. And in retrospect I should have listened to you about the peanut butter." He tightens his grip on my shoulders and buries his face in my hair, breathing ragged as Hawke and her companions jump from a loading screen and land on the Wounded Coast. "That's it," he continues, tone sharp and eyes on the screen. "That's the ambush."

The tip of my nose bumps his jaw as I knock back the watered-down dregs of pure alcohol in my glass. "Showtime," I mutter darkly. "Hang in there babe—we're almost done."

Speaking in terms of health and stamina bars, the fight goes rather well. No one falls; my earlier tactics adjustments ensure that everyone can pretty much fend for themselves. And when the dust settles—

"I'm still here," Fenris murmurs, sounding stunned. "I'm still here, and I'm still there."

I move the joysticks on the controller. Hawke moves around in spastic circles, screen-Fenris following in her wake as he always does. I send them back to Kirkwall. I bring up the "Gather Your Party" screen: game-Fenris is still there, hunched and ready, as always. I press a few buttons and run aimlessly around Kirkwall for another fifteen minutes before officially _calling it_. "So what now?" I chime happily. If I think about all the reasons _why _I'm happy he's still here, I'll probably explode. "Bacon and toast?"

"Old Gods, yes."

I fold into his tight, desperate hug with no resistance at all, practically purring with pleasure at the pressure of his palms on my back. And I remember something. "Hey, speaking of deep sky blue—"


	38. Wheee! in Tevinter is Wheeee!

**AN: **A little bit of news, before we get started-I'm now gainfully RL-employed! Unfortunately this means there will probably be longer stretches of downtime between chapters (y'know, like the one that just happened), but I'll try not to keep y'all in suspense for too long!

Also...OMGWTFBBQ? 140 reviews and you guys aren't tired of this yet? Whether you've favorite'd, alert'ed, reviewed, or are just stalking me (looking at you, **Nameless** and **Mikalia**), just... thank you. Seriously-_thank you_.

Oh and...I think I've forgotten to mention for a while now that _Bioware _actually owns Fenris...not me...whoops...

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><p>"So—it's a ship?"<p>

"Yeah, I guess you could say that."

Fenris peers dubiously through the thick pane of floor-to-ceiling glass, eyeing the aircraft's ungainly steel frame. "And it can leave the ground?" he continues inquisitively. "Completely?"

"That's the idea, yes." Anxiously I bump my carry-on bag with my heel, and feel better once I discover it hasn't moved in the last minute and a half. I pound back the cold, milky sweetness of a double-espresso-in-a-can, one eye on the back of Fenris's head. He hasn't moved in the last minute and a half, either—he's watching the ant-hive bustle of mechanics and baggage handlers mill about on the pavement and eyeing the plane with a mix of curiosity and trepidation. A corpulent gentleman sinks into the seat directly next to me with a wheeze and a creak of vinyl (_Jesus H. Twinkle-toes Christ dude there are RULES and you are BREAKING THEM!_), and I nudge my bag again. A small part of my brain is occupied with a continuous stream of particularly blasphemous swearing at the necessity of checking an actual suitcase. _Fucking baggage claim—fucking Christmas—fucking Christianity appropriating pagan holidays—_

I really hate flying.

"You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

A guilty flush works its way into my cheeks as I snap out of my increasingly neurotic ruminations. Fenris has left the window and is poised in front of me, hands in pockets and looking as though he's torn between being annoyed and being amused. I don't get it. It's Christmas fucking Eve, it's crowded as shit, and it's _early_._ How_ is he in such a good mood? He's positively _boisterous_. I strain a wan smile through all the jagged pieces of my scattered attention and try to focus on the fact that he was, apparently, trying to tell me something. It's not his fault Mark couldn't spare him for longer than two and a half days. It's not his fault I hate flying and airports and holiday travel and—_focus, Erin_. "_Culpas,_" I tell him sheepishly. "What'd I miss?"

Fenris blinks in surprise at my appropriation of his native tongue, as if _living _with him hasn't been its own unique language immersion experience. "Nothing of consequence," he assures me with an odd, quirky smile. "Are you all right? You seem—I think the correct phrase is 'out of it'."

_If he gets ANY cuter we'll be swapping more than just idioms. _I feel my smile settle more easily on my face, and stand to give the rotund interloper the culturally-mandated requisite space. "Yeah, I'm okay." I hook my foot through the strap of my messenger bag and tug it out from under the seat. "Just—this is not my favorite way to travel."

He frowns quizzically, his own carry-on slung over his shoulder. "Why are we here, then?"

I let him herd me toward the windows, where the collected warmth of the (_sacrilegiously_) early morning sun slips under my bad-tempered anxiety. "Because a collective forty-eight hour road trip was even less appealing," I answer ruefully. I let out the breath I didn't realize I'd been holding as the gate attendant sounds the "all aboard" (_I know that's for trains but whatever_). I slip my hand into his and lead him into the line of other passengers. "To be honest," I add conversationally, "I'm a little surprised at how well you're dealing."

He shrugs, unconcerned with the press and shift of the crowd as we funnel into the plane's tubular cabin. "It feels like the Docks," he explains succinctly (_and I can hear the capital D_). He smirks and adds, "Apart from the whores and reek of fish, anyway."

A muffled snort of laughter escapes me as the woman in front of me glances at us askance. "Aw, feeling homesick?" I tease him with a smirk of my own.

His hair practically bristles with emphasis as he shakes his head. "Not even a little," he retorts fervently. The single-file line of foot traffic clogs periodically as passengers find their seats and stow their things, Fenris and myself among them. Even the illusion of privacy is enough to send relief sighing through the knots of too much caffeine and general _blegh_, as Fenris claims the window seat and I keep my fingers tightly crossed against the thought of getting trapped in the middle by a _stranger_ on my other side. I let myself untwist and relax only when the last passenger scoots past with only the barest glance at the row letter.

We kill the time between boarding and taxiing away from the gate seeing which of us can find the most outrageous gadget in the SkyMall magazine (_Fenris's favorite is the necklace-wine-glass-holder, but I win with the cat box disguised as a wash stand_). He's probably the only passenger on the flight who actually pays attention to the flight attendant's routine, blank-faced instructions in the event we begin a headlong plunge into a fiery doom: he follows along in the trifold safety card and nods to himself every so often. His palm skates against mine as the plane shudders into motion and lines up on the runway; our fingers tangle together with a jolt of mint and static as the engines whine. I feel the breath catch in him as suddenly we're _moving_, hurtling down the long stretch of cement with velocity even racecars can only enviously _dream _of reaching.

We take the upward plunge, and he _gasps_. I don't think his face is big enough to contain his giddy-boy grin as we gracefully climb into an upside-down ocean of deep sky blue.

All the hassle of _travel_, from finding someone to watch over Scooter to dealing with crowds and traffic to the heart-stopping moment of panic I had when I realized I don't know how lyrium reacts with electromagnetic security devices (_it doesn't set them off, in case you're wondering_), it drops off me like dead weight as he watches the ground fall away, as Texas and then the rest of the South unfurls under the us like a flag. I would be content to stare at him for the next few hours, except that he turns to me with a smile gone soft around the edges. An answering tenderness flip-flops somewhere under my heart, warm and fierce and trembling, and I give his hand a tight squeeze.

I glance toward the window, breaking away from the gentle intensity of Fenris's gaze before this can turn into a full-fledged gooey-eyed staring contest. "You were trying to tell me something a second ago," I remind him. The plane's wing cuts through a dense white cloud; funny how even when you're old enough to know better, clouds still look like they'd be fun to jump on.

His lips twitch in amusement as he shrugs. "I am simply wondering what to expect once we arrive."

_Hopefully NOT a certain Bitch of the Wilds_.

I don't say this out loud, of course. It's probably bad enough luck to even think about her. Instead, I only lift the armrest between our seats out of the way and tug his arm around my shoulders with the ease of familiarity, and join him in staring out the window. This much, at least, he's grown comfortable with—this and a seemingly endless parade of small, casual touches that are as much habit as they are slow, cautious forays into the territory of each other.

I'm in no rush, really; all signs point to him sticking around for a while. The thunderstorm came and went without a—ah—_reprise_ of whatever landed him here. And, unless I'm _grievously _misjudging his overall mood, he _wants _to stay. Even though we haven't had a repeat performance of our shared kisses (_and I'm letting HIM initiate those—personal space is personal space_), the daily shift and beat of him dares me to hope he might want to stay not just in a world without magic. Just maybe, he wants to stay _with me_.

It may be time to start calling a duck a duck. Doesn't mean I'm gonna.

Yet.


	39. Time after time

**AN: **Hurgle-blurghle sorry this took so long, guys! Bioware owns Fenris!

* * *

><p>I feel irrationally guilty when it becomes apparent that Fenris does not enjoy landing <em>nearly <em>as much as he enjoyed taking off. The bones in my hand feel as if they're busily grinding against each other under the pressure of his grip; he turns greenish-white under the perpetual tan and stares fixedly at the lock that holds the tray table in place. When I reach across him to pull the shade down over the window, he shakes his head and tersely informs me it's somehow _worse _if he can't actually see the unforgiving concrete runway approaching at speeds that would most assuredly pulverize us if we weren't trapped in a steel tube with approximately a hundred other people, with only bind faith in the pilot's ability to guide the graceless craft to the ground without making that one crucial mistake that could send us all into a screaming oblivion of twisted metal and ruined Christmases—

Yeah, I don't much like this part either.

Disembarking is easy, though: everyone's going to the same place, so I feel like I have less to worry about other than keeping all my bits and pieces together. Bag? Check. Fenris? Check (_not that he can't keep track of himself but we've already covered what a well-adjusted traveler I'm not_). Follow the crowd? Check.

Emmett's waiting for us at the bottom of the escalator as we descent into baggage claim. He scoops me into a truncated version of his trademark bear hug and grasps Fenris's hand in that way men do when they're genuinely pleased to see each other, but hugging's for chicks. Through some mysterious but greatly appreciated Christmas magic, mine is one of the first pieces of luggage to make the rounds on the carousel. I point it out to Emmett (_it's hard to miss, seeing as it's lime green_) and he lifts it with an exaggerated grunt. "Jesus, didja pack bricks in here?" he complains as he raises the handle and hands it to me.

"Yup," I answer glibly as Fenris and I trail in his wake to the parking garage. I smirk at my brother when I spot our grandfather's vintage Mustang, top down and gleaming even in the dim light. "He let you drive Cherry Pie?" I ask with wide-eyed incredulity.

Shadows lurk behind Emmett's answering, easy smile as he replies, "Told me to show the lady a good time and said he didn't care that I had a wife and child of my own, if she ends up in a ditch again he'll belt me."

I toss a broad grin over my shoulder and try to _forget _why I braved the prospect of _flying _on _Christmas Eve _in the first place. "Boy, are you in for a treat," I tell Fenris with relish. I hurry to claim the cushy paradise of black leather in the back seat while Emmett loads the suitcase into the trunk.

He snorts as I hop over the door and pillow my head on my messenger bag (_the laptop makes it awkward but still possible_). "Better sit up front with me, Fen," he sighs resignedly. "She'll be out till we get there." He gives Fenris a careful, considering look, and adds, "Unless you don't mind having her feet in your lap."

I crack my eyelids back open, unable to resist watching Fenris's reaction to this blatant fishing. A flicker of his eyelids disguises the quicksilver glance he shoots at me, and a cool, social mask descends over his features as he sets his bag down on the floorboards and slides into the front seat. But his ears are turning salmon pink—something I hope Emmett doesn't notice (_or if he does, I hope he's polite enough to pretend he doesn't_). I sprawl in the back, stretching out the cramped, claustrophobic feelings the plane ride induced, and stare pensively at the backs of their heads. I drown in the smooth growl of the engine as Emmett turns the key in the ignition, half-asleep before we even make it out of the complex maze of driveways and one-way streets that lead out of the airport. A faint breeze whips over the windshield, carrying with it the tang of the sea and picking up speed as we get onto the highway.

Is it weird that they _both _know to let me sleep? The thought distracts me from my fruitless attempts to eavesdrop over the rush of the wind (_nosy, I know, but man-to-man conversation is FASCINATING_); it feels dangerous and odd and _right _that Fenris knows as much about me as my brother does. I take a mental snapshot of their two heads, Emmett's indeterminate blonde-brown curls (_he got those; Hel and I got the color_) bouncing, leaning closer to the white tousled mess to catch whatever Fenris is saying, and smile to myself as I slide effortlessly into true sleep.

The sea breeze turns chilly, and I shiver awake despite the sun. Someone—it isn't hard to guess who—digs a blanket out from under the seat and carefully tucks it around me. Lyrium-tinged warmth lingers over my face; I tilt my head to press my cheek into Fenris's palm for a brief instant (_and I swear I hear that goddamn duck quacking somewhere_) before falling away again, gull cries in my ears.

Something—not quite a memory (_you have to be fully conscious for those_)—but _something _nags and tugs at the web of neurons and synapses in my skull, persistent as a splinter in the non-weight-bearing part of my foot. I drift in that hazy place between dozing and dreaming, and finally pin it down as Emmett coaxes Cherry Pie to a stick-shift stop in Poppy's gravel driveway. I try (_with mixed success_) to disguise a groan as a yawn as I pop into true wakefulness.

Fenris uses the suitcase as an excuse to press close, to search my face for the reason why his instincts are no doubt crying _danger_. "What's wrong?" he murmurs urgently. "Another vision?"

"They're called _dreams_," I retort by rote. "Did Emmett mind his manners?"

He rolls his eyes exasperatedly. "Don't change the subject," he scolds mildly. "Talk to me, _dulca_."

I don't know _how _he manages to turn the simple endearment into something that pleads and reproaches all at once—maybe it's something to do with the feather-light curl of his hand over my shoulder, combined with the worried slash of his mouth and the searchlight brightness of his eyes. "Just remembering," I sigh, truth teased out of me. "I'm not sure what to expect. Not really, not after Thanksgiving." I'm tired and scared, and tired of _being _scared, and _Jesus _I just want him to _hold_ me.

And he _does_. He lets me lean my forehead into the pad of his shoulder, just under his collarbone (_my favorite spot on him and he knows it_), and gently slides his hand down my arm until he reaches my hand. "Don't borrow trouble," he advises. His other hand cups my chin and lifts my face out of his torso. A soft, knowing smirk tries to turn into a smile as he adds, "We have enough."

He's close enough to kiss—it's _right there_, waiting for me in his eyes, and I almost stand on tiptoe to touch my lips to his. But Emmett's standing on Cherry Pie's other side, waiting and watching with keen, clinical interest. I know I don't have it in me to withstand a big-brother-third-degree, so I take a deep breath and step back. I feel like a yo-yo, bouncing back and forth between distance and intimacy and tethered only by Fenris's hand in mine. It's _exhausting_, and I _love _it.

_Quack_.

"You two coming or what?" Emmett smirks knowingly.

Can't catch a fucking break, can I?

We follow Emmett up the walkway, gravel crunching under our feet. My hand lingers on the wide rail of the short staircase that leads to the oversized deck (_not to be confused with the deck of a ship_), wood worn to fine smoothness by years of wind, salt and sea. The paint on the exterior walls and shutters has begun to crack and peel; what was once vibrantly blue and white has faded to a derelict gray, especially on the second story. My shoes thump softly against the sturdy planks as I follow the deck to the other side of the house, where I can already feel the wind leave traces of rime in my hair and on my cheeks. Someone—probably Helena—has wrapped an evergreen garland around the poles of the old porch swing and whimsically added seashells to it; they clink together in a discordance that is still somehow musical. Snatches of conversation and Christmas music drift outside and are ultimately swallowed by the white-noise roar of waves on sand, barely a block distant.

It's home, just like all the other places I feel _at home_. I just wish it felt _safe_.

"Never changes, does it?" says Emmett's voice from somewhere behind me. He loops a brotherly arm around my shoulders and pulls me into a sideways hug.

"Except for when it does," I answer tonelessly, thinking of Christmases and summers and that desperate, sad echo of _He's not doing too well. _My nose twitches of its own volition at the pocket of Old Spice it finds hiding between his shirt and his jacket, and I shift accordingly. "Tell me you behaved yourself."

His eyes widen guilelessly as he grins down at me. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he lies cheerfully.

I roll my eyes and poke him in the side, where I know he's still ticklish. He twists away with an exaggerated yelp of protest. "I'm not in high school anymore," I remind him testily. "I don't need you putting on the big brother show."

"I know. And if you'd brought home a boy I wouldn't bother." Emmett's expression turns pensive—even serious. "But you brought home a man. Big difference."

I frown at him, annoyed. "I thought you liked him."

"Oh, I do." Worry and responsibility and all the things that make him my _brother_ crowd behind Campbell blue eyes for a flash of an instant, and then the easy smile is back. "It's just a shock to find out you actually have _taste_."

I slug him on the arm, feeling gratified that my lessons with Fenris have at the very least made me more effective at beating my brother. "Asshole," I state with grudging affection.

"Brat," he retorts easily. "C'mon. We saved all your ornaments for you."

Fenris whispers through the small crowd of family gathered in the foyer, expression stuck between relief and irritation. He hovers in the background, unobtrusive but still _present_, as I'm passed through several sets of welcoming arms before I even have a chance to put my bag down. "Poppy's having a good day," Mom murmurs in my ear when it's her turn. "Go ahead and take your stuff upstairs—show Fenris around." Which is mother-speak for _Go introduce the boy you brought to your grandfather. _

Déjà vu hits me, physical as a kick in the ribs, as I lead Fenris up the narrow staircase. I can _feel _my chest moving, pulling air in, but I think I'm skipping the part where it actually makes it into my lungs. I falter on the top step, swamped in the pounding mire of my heart in my chest. It's a _moment_; nothing about it is inherently remarkable except for the fact that _everything _is suddenly and inexplicably stamped into my memory. The floor vibrates as I let my bag drop on the top step; I'm torn between ducking into the nearest empty room and waiting out the sick fear pooling in my stomach, and rushing forward down the long hallway to get this the fuck over with.

Mint and static cocoon my senses as Fenris spreads his fingers across the small of my back. For all his talk of not borrowing trouble, he is as tense and _ready_ as I am: his expression is an imperfect mirror of my own mess, worry and helpless determination viciously battling across the familiar geometry of his face. "I remain at your side," he says firmly.

It's exactly what I need to hear. A slender thread of courage coils around my spine, tight as a spiral staircase. It's that moment when normal people in normal circumstances would pound a shot (_or six_), right before they do something daring. But all I have is his hand (_and I don't feel daring at all_). My fingers interlock with his and make a dance floor of the space between our shoulders. Some unspoken signal jolts through our shared subconscious, and as one we start down the long hallway that ends in the door to the master bedroom, propped open in the universal _come in _position.

"That you, my girl?"

I could be eight years old again, for all the change this room's seen. Poppy's practically-immortal cat Cello raises his head off the counterpane, dapper and disdainful as only a tuxedo-colored cat can be. Deep browns and blues make the room feel close and dark, but no less inviting; picture frames and knick-knacks crowd the built-in bookshelf that dominates one wall, each with its own story. I breathe in the heavy warmth of lingering smoke and leather book spines. Any minute now, Poppy's gonna invite me into the squashy armchair in the corner and he'll let me turn the pages while he reads to me—

"Damn pills—come help me out, lovey."

My eyes pop back open—I hadn't realized they'd closed—and the illusion's shattered. Poppy's standing at the mahogany vanity, peering shortsightedly at a veritable candy store of medication. Neon orange flashes in his hand as he struggles with a particularly malicious pharmacy bottle. I step gingerly over the thin tube that connects to the oxygen tank in the corner and pluck the bottle out of his hand. I twist it open and shake out a tablet the size of my fingertip. "Jes—Jiminy Christmas, Poppy," I almost-swear (_it's Christmas Eve, after all_). I study the labels on the other bottles—_take once per day, twice per day, take as needed for nausea_—I feel sick. My grandfather came home from a war, victorious and cocky, to a woman who gave him the world. Now he'd losing a battle waged in his own body—_he's not doing too well, not doing too well—_

But hey, no Flemeth.

It's probably a _bad _sign that I can't decide if that's an improvement or not.

Poppy's hazel eyes swoop speculatively over Fenris, who has his fingers outstretched for Cello to sniff. "Don't get old, son," he advises with a self-deprecating smile that still has the power to make years of pain and care evaporate. "Ian McCurry."

Fenris immediately grasps the offered hand, quick to recognize a kindred spirit. "Fenris FitzBhanna," he returns the greeting (_and only hesitates for half a beat to remember he HAS a last name, technically_). "I am a friend of your granddaughter's."

Warrior and father that he is, it doesn't take much for Poppy to jump to some (_not exactly_) wildly inaccurate conclusions. His gaze snaps back to my face. Just once, I'd like my personal life to be—y'know—_personal_, but no such luck. Poppy reads the truth that hides behind my glasses (_even though I'm not EXACTLY sure what the truth IS_) and smiles a trickster's smile. "Friend, huh?" he asks, but doesn't bother waiting for an answer. "Erin honey give him the tour," he says to me, comma-less drawl lilting musically. "And tell your mama I'll be down in a little."

I slip my arms around my grandfather's waist, and try not to feel too alarmed that at some point during the process of aging and infirmity he's gone from wiry to scrawny. The hot, pre-tear feeling starts to prickle at the corner of my eyes as I try to find his old scent among the newer, sterile odors of modern medicine and just _barely _fail. "Merry Christmas, Poppy," I whisper into the soft wool of his sweater.

"Same to you, baby." He drops a light kiss into my hair and adds in a smirking undertone, "I like your friend."

_He's not my—wait. _Poppy takes advantage of my flat-footedness and steps away from my too-gentle embrace. He shoos us out of the room, the wheezy chuckle of a born meddler echoing faintly in my ears.

Fenris snags my hand as I bend down to retrieve my bag. "Are you all right?" he asks, gaze mossy-soft with concern that borders on tenderness.

I _do _kiss him then, personal space be damned. I lift my heels off the ground to barely graze my lips across the plane of his cheek, trusting the relative privacy of the staircase to keep prying eyes at bay. He inhales sharply through his nose, freezing in surprise. "What was that for?" he asks warily, touching his fingertips to the spot as if expecting to find my lips still there.

_You're cute. You're here. You're you. And so, SO many other reasons._ "It's Christmas Eve," I answer aloud with a whimsical shrug. "And _she's _not here."

"We haven't checked the rest of the house yet," he reminds me, tone threaded with warning. But a palpable weight has been lifted, a hurdle cleared, and suddenly it seems _outrageous _that we ever even _considered _Flemeth would be here.

He lets me lead the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where everyone has inevitably gathered around homemade gingersnaps and eggnog (_not homemade—we only made that mistake ONCE_). "I've been meaning to ask—what is this plant?" He's staring with academic curiosity at a bright sprig of greenery dangling in the doorway between the foyer and the kitchen. "I've seen it several times now."

Son of a bit—_biscuit. _"I'll explain later," I promise reluctantly. Someone (_probably Helena_) has rigged the stereo system up to one of Pandora's Christmas stations; the melodic strains of carols soothe away some of the anxiety and sadness (_augmented by a marked absence of any witches-slash-dragons_), and _finally_, it feels like _Christmas_.

Better late than never, right?


	40. Do you hear what I hear?

**AN: **Bioware owns Fenris. I cannot stress this enough. BIOWARE. OWNS. FENRIS.

* * *

><p>Fenris and I slowly patrol the first floor under the guise of "showing him around". I turn each corner waiting to find white hair crowned with horns, and feel obscurely cheated when I never do (<em>all this tizzy for nothing?<em>). But this small discontent is nowhere near enough to outweigh my giddy relief, or the new and wonderful and _terrifying_ flutters of nervousness concentrated at the base of my spine when I realize that with Flemeth _not here_, I have legitimately _brought _someone for _Christmas_. Talk about a big deal—it's a step that in six years with Charlie, I somehow never reached.

_Huh. _

Fenris begins to pause more often as we gradually relax our guard, staring in undisguised fascination at the frozen moments preserved under wood and glass: my parents standing in front of an altar, Mom garbed in resplendent white and wearing a bride's smile; my siblings and I as infants, red-faced and cranky; a stop-motion timeline of school portraits, holiday gatherings and one or two artistic-looking candid snapshots (_the non-artistic candids are taped to the wall behind the kitchen sink_). "This—this is _you,_" he blurts in wonder.

He's stopped in front of my senior portrait—one of my favorite pictures of myself, even if the thoughtful posture and pensive smile is a bit _too _studied. Eighteen-year-old me has her violin and bow dangling from one hand, the other propped on her hip as she stares at a point off-camera, jeans and button-down blouse artfully rumpled. Studied, like I said, but still—I miss being _that _girl, sometimes. "Yup," I answer. "And that's Helena, and that's Emmett." I point out two other photos—Helena, arms spread wide and grinning with unabashed showmanship at the camera; Emmett, cocky and smirking as he props his elbow against his knee and leans forward. "We're all over the place in here."

"I see that," Fenris chuckles. He circles back into the kitchen, sneaking two cups of eggnog (_that I was fairly certain wasn't spiked before_) off a tray and passing one to me. He chews meditatively on a purloined gingersnap as he frowns at one of the four-by-six snapshots behind the sink. "You're injured in this one," he observes, with that sort of belated concern people feel when they're just now hearing about an event long done with.

I snort into my eggnog-flavored Bailey's and jerk my chin at the date: December twenty-fifth, nineteen-ninety-four, time-stamped at an ungodly two-forty-five a.m. Helena's solemnly signing a cast on my leg with a Sharpie while Emmett gives the camera a pale-faced thumbs-up, Christmas tree twinkling in the background. "Fell off the roof of the first floor," I explain, rueful with recollection. "At the time it seemed like a good place to wait up for Santa Clause."

My confession startles a laugh out of him. It's funny _now_, as all such stories are. I don't need to go into the sick drop of fear in my stomach I felt when the roof suddenly _wasn't there_ anymore, or how clearly I remember the gunshot crack of my tibia snapping (_still one of my favorite words, though—tibia_). "We got to open presents early that year," I continue jovially.

"I thought he wasn't real," Fenris interjects with a frown (_well, YOU try explaining the concept of an imaginary-yet-real jolly fat man who breaks into your house to leave presents_).

I can't help grinning at my eight-year-old self, scowling darkly behind a pair of glasses too large for my face. "All that trouble for nothing," I sigh dramatically. He continues to press me for anecdotes as we time-travel—a school play here, a camping trip there. I'm more than happy to oblige, even if I am fuzzy on some of the details.

Mom calls me into the living room, where a small box of handmade ornaments is set neatly on the arm of the loveseat next to the tree. Fenris watches with bright-eyed interest as I lovingly hang each one on the fragrant boughs, making sure the clumsily-lettered "Erin" on each one faces outward. "Y'wanna hang one?" I invite him, grinning when he blushes scarlet with pleasure and nods. He cups the heavy ceramic ball in his palms, tracing the painted letters and childish outline of a Christmas tree with one finger. He weighs it carefully and eyes the remaining empty space on the tree with a critical eye, and hangs it exactly where I would have.

My mother notices. I know she notices, because she wraps her arms around my shoulders and _squeezes_. "Oh honey," she murmurs, and doesn't need to say one word more.

Nonverbal communication: a blessing and a curse.

Night arrives with the rude abruptness of a crash landing, bringing with it a sense of merry urgency. Cookies are pulled out of the oven to make room for the prime rib roast; the not-so-discreetly spiked eggnog is swapped out for wine and beer (_or scotch, in Poppy's case_). Helena volunteers to put Liam down for a pre-Christmas service nap (_and disappears for exact amount of time it takes to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol_).

The rest unfolds like a ritual. Mom, Laurie and I shoo the menfolk out of the kitchen (_Fenris offers to help, but traditions are traditions for a reason_) and pretend not be interested in the outcome of the impromptu Texas Hold 'Em tournament, which Emmett wins (_and gets a sloppy congratulatory smooch from Laurie_). My state of denial gets progressively harder to maintain as I watch my family soak Fenris up like a sponge, battle-scarred and alien as he is. His eyes meet mine over the rim of his wine glass, green and twinkling as the wreath on the front door. Suddenly, explaining mistletoe doesn't seem all that daunting—may even be fun.

Later, though. I'd like at least _one _aspect of this…_thing _to be private.

Mom had planned on serving dinner promptly at six, so with precision bordering on military, she sends me upstairs at seven to round up wayward babes. Liam's curled chubby hands over the top of the Pac'n'Play, watching Gonzo and Rizzo pace back and forth across the DVD menu screen with polite attentiveness, and gurgles a greeting as I shake Helena awake (_and she's a MUCH better sport about it than I would have been_). I unashamedly coo back as I lift him out of the sturdy mesh pen and follow Helena to the table (_it's an aunt thing—I can't help it_). I help Laurie strap him into a high chair, and try to notice just _how _oh-so-casually Fenris slips into the seat next to mine as Poppy calls for silence, and croons a blessing that has all of us (_yes, even me_) surreptitiously swiping our fingertips over our eyes.

We talk. We laugh. We sing along with snatches of Christmas carols still drifting from the stereo. Dishes are rinsed and stacked next to the sink; they'll be dealt with after church. Those who haven't already hurry upstairs to change clothes and powder noses as applicable (_which means basically everyone but Helena_). Arranging the transport logistics for eight adults and an eight-month-old infant is…well, the phrase "like herding cats" comes to mind, but it doesn't really _capture _the merry-go-round of polite suggestions (_Mom to Poppy_) and demurrals (_Poppy back to Mom_).

Laurie brokers peace by suggesting we split up (_and how a room full of reasonably intelligent people didn't think of this EARLIER I may never know_). Poppy curls his arm through the crook of my elbow and pulls me aside, making the ruffled bottom of my pencil skirt swish intriguingly around my knees. He presses Cherry Pie's keys into my hand, conveniently deaf to my protests as he steers me down the drive. "He'll do," he says casually, sliding into the passenger seat.

I don't insult him by pretending I don't know who he's talking about. "For what?"

He blinks owlishly behind the old-fashioned frames of his glasses. "For schtupping you ass over teakettle. What'd you think I meant?"

My pious, self-imposed directive to avoid blaspheming this close to the birth of our infant savior flies out the window. "_Jesus candied Christ, _Poppy!" I exclaim, feeling my face turn as red as Cherry Pie's exterior. _Is _nothing _private in this family? _ "It's not like that," I insist repressively, nervously eyeing Fenris's outline as he approaches with Helena. I smother his inevitable _why not _in the roar of the engine and try to distract myself with making the clutch is pushed all the way in (_you only make THAT mistake a hundred times before you get it_) before shifting into reverse.

It should feel _wrong, _on some fundamental level, to be thinking the things I am unwillingly thinking on Christmas Eve—on the way to church—with my octogenarian grandfather riding shotgun. But mostly, I'm just annoyed. And charged in ways I _do not _want to be charged, what with my glass face and Fenris's uncanny ability to read my mood with only a glance (_maybe not that uncanny—roommate advantage and all that_). He can probably discern the exact nature of the thoughts racing through my brain just by the exact shade of _mortified _currently spreading over the nape of my neck.

Nobody else in my family must be getting any. It's the only explanation for why they're suddenly so interested in who I'm not sleeping with.

The nave is abuzz with the giddy crush of people as the congregation exchanges greetings. Fenris presses close, linking his fingers loosely with mine to avoid being swept away by the sea of handshakes and warm embraces. I glance at him from the corner of my eye, trying (_futilely_) to gauge his mood. In all our conversations about the mish-mash of different traditions that make up the American Christmas, I've managed to sort of gloss over this part. My own lackluster attitude toward the religion of my childhood makes talking about infant messiahs and virgin births feel disingenuous and awkward. I'm here for the music, for my family, for the explosion of poinsettias in front of the pulpit and the contagious excitement that spices the air better than perfume. Why is _he _here?

_Stupid question_—he's here because I invited him, because the alternative was spending Christmas alone with Scooter, because he's _here _instead of _there—_

"Stare all you like, _dulca_," he drawls tersely. "My appearance will not change."

I start guiltily—I've _really _got to stop doing that. I'm not alone, either; several sets of nearby eyes skitter away nervously as they notice he's noticed. More than a few wander back, gleaming with an interest I _heartily _dislike. Objectively, I can't blame them. The silver-blue markings curl tantalizingly outward from the navy collar and cuffs of his button down, creating the illusion of movement where there is none as he stands perfectly still beside me, spine set in a curve as stiff as a bow.

I glare coldly back as one or two of the younger women in the immediate vicinity give me a catty once-over. "I like you just fine as you are," I retort, made tart and bold by a combination of irritation and the fearless honesty that comes from knowing my legs look _awesome _in this skirt. I shove my hands into the pockets of my short wool coat and square my shoulders against the palpable snap of wary vulnerability that has the green-kaleidoscope gaze gleaming. It's _out _now, absent of pretense or prevarication. We've lived together—we've fought, we've touched, (_we've _kissed)—there's no _room _for anything else but the truth. Not anymore.

So I tell myself, anyway. Right before I realize he's still just _standing _there, speechless and staring. I suddenly feel the scratching prickle of countless eyes much more keenly. Doubt and self-consciousness spin into a tight ball in the pit of my stomach—_oh God did I really just say that? Is it too late to take it back? _I did, and it is. My momentary burst of courage fizzles, and I feel the ramrod-straightness of my spine collapse under the weight of his silence.

I am denied the luxury of feeling sorry for myself, however. The opening strains of "O Come, All Ye Faithful" rush through the majestic pipes of the organ and chase out the burgeoning gloom, and I find (_to my relief and surprise_) that I don't have to fake the smile that spreads from ear to ear as I join my family in a pew close to the rear of the sanctuary. I let myself be surrounded by people I love, people who love me. Who has room for knotted thoughts of reciprocated feelings, with all _this_? Not me.

Fenris slides effortlessly into the cushioned red chasm of space I've left on the seat between Laurie and myself, expression shuttered and eyes hidden by the snowy forelock I have only once dared to brush aside with my fingertips (_and that hardly counts_). He stands when we stand, sits when we sit, sings when we sing (_and oh does that smoky, resonant hum DO things to my fraying self-restraint or WHAT—so glad Christmas carols have easy melodies_), all with a barely-there crease between his dark brows that has me _gagging _to ask what he's thinking. The lights dim, and then are extinguished completely as we reverently spread the light from the Nativity candle from wick to wick, filling the sanctuary with glowing song (_and I get so choked up I can only mouth the words—every damn time_).

A set of minty-static fingertips grazes the back of my hand, warm and light and so, _so _preciously familiar. Fenris shifts beside me, too close _not _to touch, and with a sigh of release I twine my fingers through his. I give up trying to look like I'm singing and just _listen_: Mom and Helena harmonize with the rest of the congregation in twin quavering sopranos while Emmett croons to soothe a fussy Liam; Dad's and Poppy's slightly off-key baritones follow the melody, making up for what they lack in finesse with strength and sincerity. My neck bends of its own volition, until my temple is resting comfortably against the slope of Fenris's shoulder, where another hymn thrums against my senses. He hesitates for the space of a heartbeat, and bends back to pillow his cheek on the top of my head. Emotion swamps me, in the awed silence that follows the _heavenly peace_. Christmas, and now this—it's _too much_ to feel while standing still. But I don't want to move, either. To move would mean disturbing the fragile, new rhythm of…_whatever _this is.

_Still can't say it, can you?_

Nope.

_Jesus, grow up and grow a pair._

Later. Maybe.

Light floods back into the sanctuary as the organist launches into an exuberant rendition of "Joy to the World" (_ANY rendition should be exuberant, if you ask me_), and I somehow _forget _to let go of Fenris's hand as we thread our way through the merry skein of people clustering in the nave. He doesn't let go as we burst into the cooler, freer air of the parking lot, Cherry Pie gleaming invitingly under a street light. Hinges and coils squeak as I pop open the driver's side door and slip quietly behind the steering wheel. I glance up as Fenris hesitates, then slides into the seat behind me, a brief impression of hair and ears flashing across the rearview mirror before he subsides into preternatural stillness. "Did you mean what you said earlier?" he asks softly.

The salty, damp chill of night snags in my lungs, sharpens my awareness to an almost painful edge. I'm suddenly reminded of the night I met him (_officially, not just as Hawke_), how even with my back to him, his stillness was a _presence _that took up more than its fair share of space. I twist behind the steering wheel to stare at him over the seat. His hands are spread palms-up in his lap, and though his expression is concealed behind the screen of his hair, I can guess he's frowning. "Yes," I answer simply (_even though "yes" isn't simple at all_).

His gaze plays peekaboo with mine from behind the fringe of white, and he looks as if he'd like to say more. But then Poppy and Emmett burst onto the scene like a bad punch line, and he falls into embarrassed silence. I ruthlessly smother a strangled screech of frustration under the thrum of Cherry Pie's engine. _What were you about to say?_

It seems to take _forever _for everyone to settle down. The slow, sweet crash tries to descend upon the house by the sea but never quite takes—there's always one more glass of wine to be had, one more story to tell as everyone tries to milk every second of joy they can from the evening. It's the same quiet, exhausted excitement that once prompted me to drag a sleeping bag to the roof to wait for Santa Claus; switch out wine for hot chocolate and this could be the close to any other childhood Christmas Eve. I swap my skirt for pajama pants and socks that are more Elmo than Cookie Monster (_in honor of the season_), finish wrapping presents (_which I ALWAYS leave until the last minute_), and sneak a few cookies off the plate set out as I retreat to the porch swing, matching my rhythm to the distant hiss of the ocean.

The familiar tingling musk ghosts through my not-quite-sleep trance, tinged with the scents of wine and the spice of homemade cookies, as Fenris steps into the warm glow of the porch light. "How did I know you'd be here?" he wonders aloud. He watches the pendulous motion of the swing for a moment, stumbling only slightly as he mistimes sitting. "I saw you come out here, it's true. But even if I hadn't, I'd look for you here first. Why is that?"

I blink drowsily at him at him over my glasses, not sure what he's getting at. I'm spared the task of answering (_and the agony of making an idiot of myself_) as he keeps going, too pleasantly to be ranting even though that's what it feels like he's doing. "_How_ do I know that when you sing in the shower, it means your research is going well? _How_ do I know you've had a bad day when the first thing you do upon coming home is make coffee?" His head swivels on his neck, eyes bright as they wander frantically over my face. "Your toes curl when you're happy—yes, just like that," he interrupts himself, gaze dropping momentarily to my feet. "You're happy now. _How _do I know that?"

Bright red fuzz whispers together between my toes—it's a conscious effort to uncurl them under the precise, measured weight of his unwavering focus. "So you pay attention to detail," I reply, striving so very desperately for nonchalant (_and—surprise, surprise—SPECTACULARLY failing_). "That's nothing new."

"I pay attention to _you_," he corrects me fiercely. "And that _is _new. What's your favorite color?"

"Green—any shade except olive—but what's that got to do with—"

"_Venhedis_." He pushes a hand through his hair, looking as frustrated and confused as he did the first night he arrived. "How can I know all this—how can I know _you_, and _still _not know what you mean when you say you like me just fine as I am?"

My tiny-phoenix heart shoots from embers to a bonfire in about zero seconds flat. "I meant exactly what I said," I offer slowly.

"You would not be the first to find my appearance…pleasing," Fenris continues, with just a hint of snarl. "Is _that _why you stare so?"

"I stare at you," I clip out hotly, "because I'm trying to guess what you're thinking. I'm staring at _you_, not your markings, or your—elf-ness. You're grouchy and temperamental and your addiction to sweets and breakfast foods is frankly starting to worry me."

"Don't spare my feelings, _dulca_," he inserts dryly. "Please, continue to list my shortcomings."

I refuse to let him derail me—this is too important. "You have the most _wonderful _smile I have _ever _seen on _anyone_," I declare. The tiny phoenix _screams _in triumph as he blinks dazedly, and grows until it fills my whole chest, licking the inside of my ribcage with flame that heats but doesn't burn. "_That's _why I stare at you. I'm waiting to see you smile." I balance precariously on my knees and cradle his face in my hands, letting my fingertips roam down the pathways of lyrium on either side of his neck but stopping when he shivers. "You are more than _this _to me," I whisper. "And if you don't know that by now you're not paying _nearly _as close attention as I've been giving you credit for."

That strange alchemy of open vulnerability and wariness cracks though his expression again, as he hesitantly charts a course with his palms from the backs of my hands, over my arms and down the expanse of angles and planes of my back. He presses his fingers into the shallow curve at the base of my spine, and I shift with him until I'm settled comfortably in his lap. Straddling him, really—I'm big enough to admit that much, at least. It's strange. I _know _him; I know his habits, his moods (_well, some of them_)—I know him by sight, by scent, even by touch.

But to know him like _this—_

"It's for kissing," I blurt into scant inches between our faces. I fidget nervously, fingertips drumming against his pulse as one of his brows quirks sky-high. "You asked about the plant earlier."

Fenris blinks slowly, as baffled as I've ever seen him. "You…kiss a plant?"

I only barely resist the urge to find a shovel and start digging the deepest hole I can find to hide in. "That came out wrong—I meant people kiss under it. They _can _kiss," I correct myself hastily. "They don't have to. It's just another weird tradition." _Sweet baby Jesus on a cookie—just _kill _me._

And then his lips are on mine, without me having a perfectly clear picture of how they got there, and coherent thought takes a vacation. It's like our second kiss, but in slow motion—something warm and lazy pools in our shared space as he slides me closer, as I tentatively trace his mouth with the tip of my tongue. Hands wander across the expanse of territory slowly opening to exploration, new and dangerous and impossible to ignore. We shudder apart to come up for air (_and if I'm being honest, to gauge each other's reactions_). I trace the hot curve of his cheek with my fingers, searching desperately for some hint to his thoughts in the blur of green.

His lips tilt upwards in a tender smirk, and relief sighs through me like a benediction. "Not customary behavior between friends, so I'm told," he teases me.

"'Customary' has left the building," I laugh shakily, skimming my palms over his chest. _"Customary" may never have been IN the building. _"We have _defenestrated _'customary'."

Fenris's hand skates over my shoulder blade and down my arm, minty-static fingertips curling into the crook of my elbow as he hesitantly asks, "What does that make us, then?"

I know a lot of different words for _this_. But none of them—_boyfriend? Lover? Friend-with-benefits?—_feels quite accurate. None of them are _enough _to encompass the rush of emotion, or the thrilling sparkle of _new _mixing with the familiar. "I have _no idea_." I'm not sure if I'm smiling because I'm happy, or because I'm _terrified_. Barely-discernible flecks of amber flicker through the forest of green, like sunlight filtering through spring leaves—how have I never noticed that before? "Make it up as we go?"

One finger gently sweeps aside a strand of hair that's tumbled into my face, traces the outer shell of my ear as he lapses into thoughtful silence. His heartbeat quickens under my hands, and he _smiles_ that smile I'm _always _waiting for. "You lead me to strange places," he chuckles huskily, brushing another soft kiss across my smile. "Count me in."


	41. Loverducker sounds like WHAT out loud?

**AN: **Instead of apologizing like I want to, I'll thank each and every one of you for your patience, and willingness to stick around. Real life is kind of kicking my butt (in a good, at-least-I'm-getting-paid way), and I can only beg your indulgence as I try to find a balance between keeping this updated predictably and...um... sleeping. Every review, every "favorite" and "alert", and every lurker keeps me going. You guys are in my thoughts; you keep reading, I'll keep writing!

* * *

><p>Christmas morning creeps under night's heels, with no one the wiser until we open our eyes. Hazy sunlight shimmers through the dense mist rolling off the ocean, coaxing me awake with promises of presents and coffee. I roll over, putting my back to the east-facing window, and curl around the myriad warm, borderline indecent thoughts that have been lacing the usual sugarplum visions all night. I kissed Fenris. And not just kissed—<em>kissed<em>. Or maybe he kissed me. I've lost track of some of the particulars somewhere between euphoric glee and dreading the idea things between us are going to be _weird_, now that we're separated from the puckish influences of mistletoe and too much wine.

Helena squeaks the bedroom door open as I'm fishing for the Elmo-skin socks I must have kicked off during the night. "Guess what today is!" she hisses excitedly.

"Sunday?" I quip readily, just to annoy her.

She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly and flops onto the rumpled butter-and-lavender quilt. "Just be excited with me, Emmi—it's Christmas!" she exclaims, unable to stay irritated for very long (_and now you know MY much-loathed childhood nickname_).

Her childlike gaiety is infectious. I cease my posturing and grin back. "It's Christmas," I echo, giddiness bubbling from somewhere under the pre-caffeine gloom. _I kissed Fenris last night. _Hard to top that.

Helena heaves a dramatic sigh of impatience as I chase out the last vestiges of my mostly-sleepless night with my favorite citrus-scented scrub, perhaps taking longer than I _strictly _need to. I \t's a big-sister thing.

We tiptoe into the hallway (_and I very determinedly do NOT make calf's-eyes at the closed door across from mine_), where a soft hiccup and a heavy gust of parental resignation beckon us toward the room Emmett's sharing with Laurie, door cracked open so Cello can wander freely. Liam has his chubby cheek pillowed on his mother's shoulder, half-asleep and fussy with infant need. "Couldn't let us sleep, could you, baby-man," Laurie sighs, the gentle delight in her smile taking the sting out of the accusation. She soothes him with a rhythmic tap on his small back with her fingers and a tuneless humming as she nudges the diaper bag out from under the bed with her foot.

I hook my fingers around my sister's elbow as Emmett steps into view and gathers his small (_for now_) family to his chest. I blink in surprise as it unexpectedly _hits _me, warm and squishy and mack-truck fierce: my _brother _is a husband, a _father_. When did _that _happen? The obvious answer is of course sometime around eight months ago for the latter, and about two years before _that _for the former, but still—

He'll have his moments as Emmett-the-brother later (_and oh, will he have them_); for now, I put my finger to my lips and steer Helena away from the gap in the door. The floor creaks treacherously, giving away our position, and Emmett's gaze meets mine over Laurie's shoulder. _Thanks_, he mouths, one corner of his mouth twitching as he rocks his wife and child in his arms. I twitch back and give him a\thumbs-up (_which everyone knows is Slightly-Emotionally-Inept-Little-Sister code for "Don't mention it and enjoy your beautiful family"_) and shoo Helena toward the stairs.

A vague impression of long-toed, tattooed feet and denim-clad legs abruptly transforms into a whole Fenris as he shoots upright and sidles away from the Christmas tree. "Ladies," he greets us with polite nonchalance, as if we _hadn't _just caught him in the act of playing Santa Claus. We pretend we don't notice (_in accordance with commonly-accepted Christmas etiquette_) and both chime a Merry Christmas.

He colors slightly under Helena's long, shrewd look that bounces between our faces like a Ping-Pong ball in slow motion. I see it when it happens—a well-meaning but slightly manic light dawns in her eyes as she puts all the pieces in mostly the right places. She all but shoves me forward as she darts back upstairs, trilling mendaciously about Emmett and Laurie needing her help after all. "Why don't you two start coffee?" she suggests, with a shit-eating grin that I'm fairly certain isn't allowed under the rules (_Christmas etiquette—see above_).

This _is _weird. Funny how being right can be so incredibly depressing. He's fallen again into stillness, with a fathomless jade stare trained fixedly on my face. I flex my fingers at my sides, overcome by a strange, despairing curiosity—like an explorer who has suddenly realized he (_or she, in my case_) forgot to pack anything with which to draw a map. I feel as though I'm meeting him for the first time, trapped in a stalemate of wary, watchful silence as we take each other's measure. Maybe "make it up as we go" wasn't such a great idea—scratch that, maybe it was a _terrible _idea—

Fenris's awkward, gravelly cough rattles into the stretched quiet. "Hello."

_This is silly. You're BOTH silly_. For once, my inner voice seems to have my best interest at heart—head—wherever. I push a nervous, toothy grin past my deepening paralysis and close the gap between us, until I'm within arm's reach. "Hi," I murmur back. Not exactly a _scintillating _conversation opener, considering what happened last night, I'll admit. But cut me some slack—he's the first lyrium-enhanced elven swordsman I've ever shared toe-curling kisses with. I'm a little out of my depth here. "Um. Merry Christmas."

"_Culpas—_that is the proper greeting." The languid heat from last night returns as his fingers shrink the remaining space to nothing and knot together with mine. Something hot and bright sparks behind the cool green gaze, making me feel as though I'm wearing a layer or eight too many. "Merry Christmas, _dulca_."

_Santa baby, leave a Fenris under the tree for me…_ A flush spreads from my cheeks upwards to the shells of my ears, and my toes are curling again. We might have stayed like that indefinitely, with blushing smiles and eyes glued to one another, except I remember we're _supposed _to be making coffee. Or maybe we're _supposed _to be doing exactly what we're doing—according to Helena, at least. It's too much of a muddle to puzzle out _sans _caffeine. Perhaps he's thinking along the same lines; he lets me tug him into the kitchen and starts patiently hunting through cabinets and drawers with an ease that shouldn't still surprise me, but it does.

I guess some things don't need to change. What a blessed relief _that _is.

"You could just ask, you know," he says casually, as the industrial-strength coffee maker begins to growl.

I give myself a little shake, once again caught in the act of staring creepily at him. "Sorry. Ask what, exactly?"

"What I'm thinking." He dusts grounds off his fingertips into the sink and leans against the counter, a hint of challenge riding tag-along with the relaxed posture and knowing smirk. "That _is _chiefly why you're staring at me, yes?"

At this point I might as well _paint _my face red; it'll save my cheeks the trouble of blushing (_my blood vessels are probably exhausted by now_). I nod, refocusing my attention on a cardboard can of Pillsbury cinnamon rolls. Dough sticks to my fingers as I arrange them in a pan, stalling for time while I gather my nerve to just freaking _ask_. Since he's mentioned it, though—"Okay, so what _are _you thinking?"

Fenris's thoughtful regard falls over me like a thick, heavy blanket; I feel as if I'm caught in the uncertain territory between being comfortably warm and being suffocated (_or maybe that's just the oven_). "I am thinking," he begins slowly, "that I may have the advantage of you."

I frown at the back of his neck in puzzlement as he turns and busies his hands with mugs and other coffee _accoutrement_—cream, sugar, a spoon to share. I step gingerly around him and find an Erin-sized stretch of countertop with an unhindered view of his profile. "How so?" I ask curiously as I easily hoist myself up.

He blinks twice, looking startled to suddenly find me at eye level. I self-consciously straighten under his steady scrutiny, wondering if he's finding answers in my bright red flannel pants printed with Christmas ornaments, or the dark green top that bares a scandalous amount of collarbone (_chosen mostly on accident_). Ceramic scrapes lightly against laminate as he slides my mug toward me. "It seems strange," he finally answers, "to try courting you when we're already…_familiar _with one another."

A grin tries to escape the confines of my face to spread from wall-to-wall. Forget grinning—I'm _beaming_. My knee bumps his hip as I scoot closer—talk about _familiar_. "Is that what we're doing? Courting?"

"I don't know a better word for it," he confesses, and shifts so his arm rests naturally behind me. Not an embrace, but the option is there. "Is it accurate?"

It's a good word, one for watercolor-soft, romantic Hobby Lobby posters and forgotten longings I _thought _I had long since outgrown. "I don't know," I answer honestly. "I've never really been _courted _before."

His head tilts to one side in confusion, brow creasing. "You—had a lover, did you not?" he inquires tentatively, perhaps conscious that it _might _still be a sore subject (_newsflash: it's SO totally not_).

I can't help the cynical puff of laughter that escapes me as I remember Charlie's "modern" approach of _Wanna?_—complete with my corresponding, equally lackadaisical _Sure, why not? _ "The two don't necessarily always go together," I reply with a wry twist of my lips. "Not _here_, anyway." I'm not _bitter_, exactly—_honest_. Just reconciled to the reality Disney failed to prepare me for. A reality that turns _irrevocably _topsy-turvy when Fenris very deliberately sets his cup aside and folds my free hand into his. His gaze doesn't stray a _centimeter _from mine, watching my face with rapt attention for any change in my expression as he slowly raises my hand to his lips and brushes a feather-soft kiss across the backs of my fingers.

I freeze, utterly incapable of hearing or feeling anything beyond the sudden, frenzied roar of my pulse in my ears, or the drum line rattle of my heart in my chest. What do you _say _to that? What _can _you say? He's right—he _does _have the advantage of me. Something I _know _he knows, because he has the _brass balls _to look _smug_, even under the crimson flush that works its way down from the elegant tips of his ears to disappear into the collar of his t-shirt.

His countenance softens, responding to some unconscious quirk in my smile or twitch of my brow, and he lets my hand drop without letting go. "Now what are you thinking?" I ask, almost hungrily.

I've never had _anyone _honest-to-God _smolder _at me before. But I don't know a better word for the ember-bright heat that makes the flecks of amber in his eyes dance with mischief. "I am thinking—I like you just fine."

I've seen an irritated Fenris; a grouchy Fenris, a calm Fenris, a protective Fenris, an angry Fenris—a _murderous _Fenris, once or twice. I've seen more _Fenris _during his time here than I ever thought possible, than I ever even dreamed could _be _possible. But it's the _flirtatious _Fenris that proves to be my undoing. That _Inside _place transforms from a morose gray limbo into a riot of fear and wonder, splashing my _self _with vivid, raw emotion that feels alive with color. It shudders through me, a phoenix finally taking flight with one hot and powerful beat of its wings. This man—elf, warrior, fugitive, friend and _everything _I know he is—

_I love him_.

Merry flippin' Christmas. I've just skipped to the _end _of the traditional chivalric courtship as I know it.

And _fuck _if I know what _his _idea of courtship is. But my keen feminine intuition tells me I'm probably going to find out.

And you know what else? I cannot _wait_.


	42. Sparks fly when you smile

I'm spared the certain disaster of any attempt to voice emotion more tender than "I like you." A stampede of feet and the concurrent beep of the oven abruptly summon me back into myself. I spring away from him, too wary of the layer-cake of _new_ to want to share it with anyone (_not that it's not probably all over my face anyway, but I can pretend_). Fenris shifts effortlessly around me as I pull the tray of cinnamon buns out of the oven, somehow ending up on the opposite end of the countertop and seeming utterly unconcerned he'd just smoldered at me.

Except for the blushing. Honestly, he's going to hurt himself or something if he can't get that under control.

Coffee is poured, cinnamon buns are plucked from the pan (_fingers are licked clean of icing_), and territory is staked out on sofas and chairs and the mocha-colored shag carpet Poppy refuses to update. The Christmas tree, altar and centerpiece, inexorably draws our gazes downward to the dragon's hoard of jewel-bright packages nestled chaotically atop the felt skirt my grandmother stitched by hand in some bygone era. I brace my back against a footstool and cross my legs at the ankles, juggling cinnamon bun and coffee and a mummer's dance of heady emotion that keeps threatening to turn into a bubbling giggle. Emmett flashes me a smirk as Fenris folds naturally into place beside me, far enough away for propriety but too close not to be _something_. My adolescent urge to flip my brother the bird is subsumed by the even more childish imperative to Be Good—it's Christmas (_so I have to settle for sticking my tongue out at him_).

And besides, whatever he's thinking is probably (_mostly_) right.

It happens every year: a moment of silence as we just _stare _at each other, everyone waiting for anyone _else _to go first. I sense Fenris glance at me sideways, looking for some clue as to his role in this part of the elegant, complicated ritual. I slip my hand into his and squeeze reassuringly, relieved for both our sakes that no one really notices. All eyes are on Liam, unleashed and _motoring _for the colorful wrapping with single-minded curiosity. Paper crinkles excitingly, and we all laugh as he gums a corner of a present, an eager expert in the masticatory inquiry of All Things. Emmett gets up to read the label before it's obliterated by drool, and just like that, things are underway.

It's always been my favorite part—taking turns passing out presents, still governed by the rules that kept squabbles from breaking out when we were children; the gasps and cries of delight as wrapping tears to reveal something needed, or wanted (_and the best presents are the ones we've forgotten we've asked for_). But even this familiar joy pales in comparison to the look on Fenris's face whenever a parcel drops into his lap.

I catch something new every time: the way his large eyes widen a fraction before he blinks in surprise; the shy upswing of one side of his mouth as he carefully peels the wrapping paper back. By the time I hand him his present from me, I know what to look for. I smooth away an imaginary wrinkle in my flannel pants as he frowns, then grins and lifts the battered, old-fashioned copy of _Oliver Twist _from its nest of tissue paper (_I'm strictly a gift-bag girl—can never get the corners right when actually WRAPPING presents_). Fenris traces the faded gilt letters with one fingertip and inhales the musty, old-book scent appreciatively. His _thank you_ rumbles through me—simple words but they pluck a chord deep inside me and set _everything _thrumming with resonance. And then it's his turn.

His gifts are small things, but each was chosen with painstaking care. I feel myself tumbling deeper into—into _trouble_ (_ass over teakettle indeed_)as each of my family members grins in delight over sweet-smelling cakes of soap (_for the girls—mine smells like honey and citrus_), or the thick deck of cards and a promise to thoroughly school our menfolk in Diamondback later. "I owe you for last night," he growls at Emmett in friendly challenge, which my brother accepts with a competitive smirk.

That, I'm gonna have to watch. Maybe even give Fenris a sloppy congratulatory kiss if he wins.

"May I speak with you later, in private?" he asks, in a whisper meant (_I'm POSITIVE_) to give a girl all sorts of salacious notions. His legs seem to stretch for _miles _in front of him as he reclaims the patch of carpet beside me, perhaps a millimeter or two closer than he had been. "I—have something else for you."

There is _way _too much going on in my head for me to do much more than nod, and send a quelling glare in Emmett's and Helena's direction. I'm picturing anything from an actual object to another mistletoe-induced, toe-curling kiss to things even Nora Roberts would be embarrassed to put in print, and I'm sure my face is so red and hot we could scramble eggs on it (_second breakfast, anyone?_).

_Get. A. Grip._

"_Tell me _you're not still trying to be just friends," Helena hisses a few minutes later, as she bends down to help me gather bits of paper and ribbon.

A slideshow of _moments _flashes across my mind's eye, a sharp-edged collage of images connected to volumes of sensory input. Coffee, kisses (_courting!_)—no, I wouldn't say we're just friends. But I can't put my finger on what we _are_, either. I try to tell myself it doesn't matter—not yet, anyway (_and for once, it works_). In the end, I shrug helplessly and face my sister with a silly, twitter-pated grin.

"Oh, sweetie!" she squeals, and yanks me into a hug that smells like expensive vanilla and jasmine. "Are you okay with this?" she asks in an urgent undertone, as the last present is opened and the rest of the family (_and Fenris_) start to stir restlessly.

I _definitely _know the answer to _that_, at least. "Better than okay," I assure her fervently, feeling some of the freezing uncertainty melt away from my expression.

"I believe that," she murmurs with a quirk of her brow and a sly, conspiratorial smile. "Heads up," she adds with a jerk of her chin in the general direction of _right behind me_.

My feet threaten to slide out from under me as my socks, in alarming defiance of friction and physics, spin me around on the balls of my feet to face this new…_development_. I haven't felt this wrong-footed and fumbling with regard to the opposite sex since I was a teenager. Maybe not even then. But right now, I'm _reeling_. Is being in love _supposed _to feel like this?

I bite my bottom lip against a rueful smile that would undoubtedly reveal far more of my inner thoughts than I want known. _Nothing _with Fenris has "supposed" to happen. So what do I do?

_Just roll with it._

Fenris's long, dark sleeves crinkle as he pushes them up his tattooed forearms and begins compulsively assisting in breakfast clean-up. Helena, in a once-in-a-lifetime display of tact and discretion, excuses herself and lets us get on with finding every possible excuse to touch, as he hands me mugs and plates still warm from the sink to put into the dishwasher (_you might not think of CHORES as particularly romantic, but HOLY CRAP would you be wrong_). Every brush of his fingers against mine sends a jolt of pure energy from head to toe; I can only hope I have a similar effect on him or this is _never_ going to work.

All too soon, though, we're out of dishes. If we want to touch each other, we're just gonna have to grow up and do it. Preferably without an audience. I shoot a quick glance at the staircase and blink a question at him, hoping I'm not _grossly _misreading the situation (_because that would just…suck_). His lips twitch upwards, shy and warm (_and by the way, I've _kissed _those recently_), and he nods infinitesimally. I don't recall consciously slipping my hand in his—hell, maybe we just haven't let go. Maybe it doesn't matter—it's _there_, and we soundlessly trip up the carpeted steps to the second floor.

Habit and nerves compel me to pop open the door to the room that was always mine whenever we'd visit as a family. The midmorning sun has finally broken free of its shroud of clouds; it flows smoothly into the spring-shaded haven and pools on the floor, in the well-loved, butter-upholstered reading chair beside the window—the rumpled bed I never remember to make. The blood tingles in my fingertips as I twitch the covers over the pillows and sink onto the hand-stitched quilt. This is the first time I've ever invited a man (_not a relative_) in here, the first man I've ever _brought _to _Christmas_, the first time I've ever _not known _what to _do _around a man—_way _too many firsts for a twenty-five-year-old woman.

_He's your first lyrium-enhanced-elven-swordsman-toe-curling-kissing-partner-in-crime. I think you get some leeway_.

Wow. Since when am I so _nice _to me?

Fenris doesn't follow immediately; he detours into his room to retrieve…_whatever _this "something else" is. Soft, moody blues and grays flash briefly through the crack in his door—somehow I doubt my grandparents meant for the seascape-inspired hues to evoke a peculiar desire to drag him down to the beach and kiss him till we're both gasping. Then he's back, and I can _feel _the walls contract. It's just—he's so much _person_, and there's so _much _between us, all of a sudden. It's a little disconcerting.

Paper flutters as he unclasps his hands from behind his back. "This—ah—this is for you," he explains softly, needlessly.

We were both wrong—_courtship _isn't the right word for this. Courtship doesn't have _room _for the sizzling _want_, or the messy buoyancy of emotion that constricts in my throat as I struggle to take in the detailed sketch. He's drawn his own hand, resting lightly against an intimately-familiar background of countertop and coffee mugs—and clasped around _my _hand, expertly rendered in bold, simple pencil strokes.

_Huh. So he _can _draw. _And not just that—the man can _draw_. Something hitches deep in my chest, sweet and almost painful, as new details keep popping forward. The grain of the wooden cabinet, the chip in the rim of my favorite mug, the swirl of his markings winding around my fingers—he's captured it all. He's captured a _moment_.

Holy shit. He's drawn _us_.

"_Venhedis, _woman—say something," he growls tensely.

Ah. There's the Fenris I know. And love. Still getting used to _that_ idea. I want to oblige him—really, I do. Something like this deserves an immediate response; even just _thank you _would be enough. Except it's _so _not. I stand, swallowing hard past the lump in my throat, and slip his gift between two pages of a notebook I have in my laptop bag; I don't want it to crinkle. He doesn't take his eyes off me as I cross the room back to him (_is this what he feels like when I stare at him? No wonder he'd rather I just ask_) and, after a beat, slowly wrap my arms around his shoulders. "_Thank you_," I whisper.

Something inside him unknots itself under my hands, and he readily pulls me closer. "You like it, then?" he asks shyly, extricating himself just enough to peer closely into my face.

I nod, not trusting myself to speak quite yet. I link my fingers together behind his neck, incapable of doing much besides other than stare into the bottomless, moss-green pools that are in turn staring at me. "Is this how it's done in Kirkwall?" I ask, once I feel like I can put voice to words without dissolving into a boneless pile of goo. "Courting, I mean?"

I could just _melt _into the accidental brush of silken white locks against my fingertips as he shrugs and readjusts his grip on my waist. "I have no idea," he answers, echoing my words from last night with a small, secret smile meant just for _us_. "I've never tried before."

I don't think I've stopped smiling for the last hour and a half—my cheeks are starting to hurt. _Make it up as we go _is turning out to be a superb, fantastic, _genius _idea. I'd like nothing more than to just stay here, wrapped up in him as together we rappel off the precipice at the bottom of the proverbial slippery slope, but—

"We should get back," Fenris sighs heavily. The circle of his arms around me waist breaks and slowly slides apart, and I shudder unhappily as the inches of distance increase by increments.

"I really, _really _like my present," I tell him, and it feels like a confession.

His smile widens, deepening the crinkles at the corners of his eyes by fractions I don't think most people would notice, but I do. "I gathered."

It has to be the smile. Or the twinkle. Or maybe there's some lingering alcohol in my system. I lunge forward, recklessly pressing my lips to his in a fast, can't-get-caught kiss. "For luck," I explain breathlessly. "You have a Diamondback game to win."

He laces his fingers through mine, eyes alight with the prospect of challenge (_or maybe the kissing, I'm not exactly sure_) as he leads me back into the safety of my family's chaperonage. "I can't lose," he chuckles, and for a few seconds I think I forget to _breathe. _

_Leeway. Remember, leeway._

I swear to God, it's like I have a specially-attuned Fenris _radar_ pinging away in my skull. I try not to outright _stare _at him, settling instead for quick glances across the room as the card game progresses. It's _ridiculous_, is what it is. The way his hands move, the patient instruction as he explains the rules using M&Ms and gingersnaps for stakes—none of it should feel inherently _different_, just because we're now open to the possibility of…_more_. But it _does _feel different. It feels like—well, like _more_. More than friends, more than courtship, more _everything_.

He's folded this hand, cards spread face down on the round, pinewood table. He catches me staring at him (_again_), and smirks over the backs of his hands. I _itch _to kiss that smirk off his face, to answer the quirk of his brow and teasing curve of his lips with a blatant, brazen challenge. Not to boast, but I've never received complaints in _that _department, at least.

He drew a picture for me. He drew a picture of _us_, for _me_. Who _does _that? And when the hell did he find the _time_? Inevitably, my gaze finds its way to his face again, and I notice for the first time the faint, purple half-moons under his bright green eyes, the speed with which he drains his coffee. He excuses himself for another cup, flashing me one of those brand-new, secret _us _smiles as he ducks in and out of the kitchen (_holy Moses—we may actually _be _an "us" now_).

_Son of a bitch. _That fierce phoenix-fire sensation twists hotly in the pit of my stomach as I realize he must have worked on it last night—_all _night. And here he is, teaching my father, grandfather, and my brother how to play Diamondback (_and winning, if the pile of candy and cookies is anything to go by_), stretched tightrope-thin with fatigue but looking _happy _regardless. I'm in love with a man who stayed up all night to draw me a picture. Who will still teach my family a card game that is, at its core, _made-up_. Who wants to _court _me, whatever the flying frijole fuck_ that_ means. What am I supposed to _do_ with that?

And oh Jesus—what do we do when we get _home_? Dogs and cats are not known for their efficacy in the field of supervision, which I'm pretty sure is an integral part of _any _incarnation of courtship. I hiccup on a hysterical giggle, shaking free from absurd, puritanical notions of sewing myself into a sheet. This is _ridiculous_. I duck into the kitchen, desperate to distract myself (_emotional turmoil? Campbells make COOKIES_). I'm an _adult, _dammit. Surely I'm _past _getting this…_twisted_ up over a _man_.

_Nope. You're twisted up like a county fair pretzel, and you know it._

Fucking _bloody _hell, I can't even kid _myself _anymore. Flour swirls in snow-like flurries, leaving dusty trails across the vivid reds and greens on my flannel pants. I half-heartedly beat an egg (_or is it two?_) into the rich-smelling, sticky mess of flour, sugar and chocolate. Love like a pretzel—I should put that on a t-shirt.

Though considering everyone I know is practically psychic (_which sounds better than "I'm a fucking open book"_), I probably needn't bother. It's an uphill battle to tease my expression into something acceptable for cookies and Christmas as I slide a baking sheet into the oven, as Mom sweeps into the kitchen on a gale of laughter. "Have you printed your boarding passes yet?" Mom wants to know.

I nod distractedly, swiping one finger along the side of the mixing bowl. Fenris and I are catching a red-eye back to Texas tonight—not ideal but a man's gotta make a living. My mother's eyebrow twitches inquisitively as I continue to scrape my teeth along my index finger long after any trace of cookie dough has been consumed. She follows my half-guilty glance toward the card game and jokes knowingly, "Man cookies?" But there's a too-sharp edge to the teasing, Southern lilt she's never managed to shake—an interrogative undertow that requires an answer. _Now_.

I nod, unable to decide if I feel miserable or ecstatic. I note, with bizarre, misplaced pride that Fenris is _cleaning up _at the card table. _Why do I care?_

Duh. Because I really want to kiss him again.

Mom snorts with quiet amusement and tucks me into the comfort of her shoulder. I don't fit quite as easily as I used to, but I've always been good at adapting. "Do I need to be concerned?" she continues softly.

I shake my head mutely, knowing she'll be concerned anyway. What mother wouldn't be? I'm attracted to my _very_ attractive de facto roommate, who is also apparently attracted to me (_he's COURTING me!_), and we haven't exactly been _subtle _about it. "I'm okay, Mama," I try to reassure her. "I think."

She shocks me by laughing musically and patting my back between my shoulder blades. "My poor baby," she chuckles sympathetically. My Fen-Radar (_patent pending_) sings through me, and I think she _feels _it, as a tide of masculine anguish rises over the edge of a conspicuous, smug silence that can only mean one thing: Fenris won the card game. Which means—_oh God—_

The puckish, speculative smirk on my mother's face does not suit her at _all_, I decide petulantly as I pull the first batch of cookies out of the oven. "Don't let your daddy see the look on your face," she warns me, edge absent from her teasing this time. "Shotgun Christmases are no fun."

That bubble of hysteria swells and threatens to burst, as I picture Fenris, markings blazing in all their otherworldly glory, cowed and helpless when faced with an appropriately-overprotective father. The corners of my mouth tremble as I try to school my face against any revealing twitch or quirk that might send Dad scrambling for the nearest firearm. I think Fenris is really the only one who notices, though (_but then again, I am carrying fresh, gooey cookies_). I can't really _place_ his expression, as his gaze snags mine. A weird ripple of nervousness rolls under the fatigue and triumph of victory; his long lashes go a long way to conceal the uneasy flicker of his eyes around the room full of _people_. But I see it.

And the weird thing is, I _get _it. So instead of doing what I had originally planned (_i.e. kiss him brainless_), I sink into the chair Poppy vacates and lay a warm cookie on top of the neat stack he's already amassed. "Well done," I offer, almost too-casually but it's better than making an utter _cake _of myself.

"I told you I couldn't lose," he answers, looking so _damn _pleased with himself that I almost regret my high-road decision to lay off the PDA. Almost. But then he _looks _at me through that feathered fan of dark lashes—exhausted, happy and _relieved_—and I know I made the right call. I can kiss him brainless later.

_See? You can be psychic too._

Huh.

Minutes and hours float unhurriedly by, like leaves fallen into the river back home. We eat when we're hungry, grazing from the dazzling array of both sweet and savory offerings laid out in the kitchen. I take Poppy's place at the card table, and surprise everyone by _almost _winning the next Diamondback game. Once I figure out which hands beat which, it's startlingly familiar—probability and players, that's all gambling is. Fenris is the only one who outlasts me. I make him work for it; in the end, though, my cards force me to succumb to the pine-dark challenge and sun-bright pleasure dancing across his elven features. I'm reminded of our sparring matches, for some reason—probably because I never win _those, _either. I take a large bite out of one of the cookies he's just won off me, and a powerful, unfamiliar thrill of feminine satisfaction shoots up my spine like a bottle rocket when he appears unable to tear his gaze away from my mouth.

Ha. Point to me.

The sun finishes its meandering, inexorable journey west, sinking into its cosmic nest beyond the horizon. The cheer grows more subdued as the moment of departure marches closer. I let it draw perilously near, longing to stretch even milliseconds beyond their due allotment of time. Emmett volunteers to drive us back to the airport, and immediately regrets it when I take three times as long to say my farewells, especially to Poppy (_not doing too well, not doing too well—_) as I would under normal circumstances. Cherry Pie cuts a scarlet path through the night; I fight a losing battle to keep tears at bay as Emmett tosses a backwards wave over his shoulder and pulls away from curbside drop-off.

I jump, startled, as Fenris hesitantly drapes an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer. I lean gratefully into the sideways embrace—_I'm not alone—_and lead the way into the terminal.

We don't really speak much as we wait for the mysterious forces of the airport universe to get their shit together, saying all we need to with a light brush of fingers on skin, or a quick squeeze that presses palm to palm. I can feel myself crashing headlong into the absolute limit of stimulus I can endure; I rest my head on Fenris's shoulder and am sound asleep almost before we've finished taxiing away from the gate.

A deep, slow inhalation. A shift in the muscles under my cheek. A change in the configuration of limbs. And suddenly I'm cradled against his chest, nestled securely against soft black cotton and the all-consuming minty-static musk, with his temple pillowed on the top of my head. My last coherent thought is _Oh baby—a girl could get used to this—_

He shudders awake as the plane's wheels bounce on the tarmac in Austin, all sprawling limbs and fuzzy eyes while he struggles to remember where he is and how he got there. I rub my eyes and gently push myself off him, knowing enough by now to give him his space.

"We slept together," he observes after a moment, sounding a little stunned.

"Way to go, Captain Obvious," I grunt in amusement as I stretch the sleep from my cramped limbs. "Anything else?"

He spares a cranky, exasperated glare for my flippancy and impatiently gestures me out of the way so he can retrieve his bag. He's silent all the way to baggage claim, hands shoved into his pockets and utterly inaccessible to my tentative, questing reach. We're exiting the highway, bare moments from my apartment before he repeats, "We slept together."

"We did," I agree coolly.

"Is that allowed?"

I throw my head back and laugh, strangely relieved of the choking panic that had suddenly squeezed into my ribcage. "We're making it up as we go, remember?" I remind him giddily.

Fenris blinks, taken aback by my mirth (_I blame sleep deprivation_). "I remember," he confirms slowly. The _So…? _is left unsaid. But it's lurking in the sardonic twitch of his eyebrow.

"So _we _get to decide what's allowed and what's not." My car swerves slightly as I maneuver it into an empty parking spot. He follows me to my door in (_I hate to say it_) brooding silence, eyes shrouded in thought. He unpacks his sparse belongings and puts them away—I guess it's gonna be one of _those _nights. Mornings. Whatever.

I smile sadly at his back. Flirty Fenris, Broody Fenris…_my _Fenris. "I'm going to bed," I announce quietly.

"Erin—wait."

I watch him warily as he crosses my small living room and grasps my hand in his. I lean on my doorway for support. Great as the last couple of days have been—shit, "great" doesn't even begin to cover it. I feel like I've been on a rollercoaster whose only mode is constant uphill climb. But it's four in the morning. And I'm up so high I'm beginning to feel a little vertigo.

His other hand slowly rises between us to cup my cheek, tilting my face toward his. Of their own volition my eyelids flicker closed at the ghost of his breath on my lips, right before he presses his mouth to mine. _Inside _trembles as one hand glides up and the other slips down until he's very gently pinning me against my own doorway in a sweet goodnight crush of lips and hands that has me contemplating anew the virtues of a cold shower. _Sweet JESUS he's good at this—_

"Goodnight, _dulca_," he whispers. His hands slide away from my waist, and he tucks a flyaway strand of hair behind my ear in a startlingly intimate gesture. "May you sleep well."

"'Night," I murmur dazedly, kissed brainless.

And strangely okay with it.


	43. It makes such an almighty sound

**AN: **Special thanks to **DKAllayna, Liso66, The Original Frizzi, Nameless-Sinner,** **Wynterkiss_..._**I could go on for pages, really. Each and every one who's ever left a review, EVER; everyone who's put this on his or her favorites list, who's put this on alert, who obsessively hits Refresh on the main page...you all deserve more thanks than I can ever say here.

And because I haven't mentioned her in a while, an _extra _special shout-out to **Taffia**, for all the ego-stroking, the hand-holding, and for being an all-around good friend. If you're not familiar with her story, Following Fate, you should definitely go check it out.

* * *

><p>I. Am. <em>Pathetic<em>.

Seriously, I am. I mean, the man _lives _with me for six fucking weeks, and I've done the whole-haul female grooming ritual _once_, courtesy of Helena. I've shaved my legs maybe _twice_ beyond that. But five kisses into this new…_thing_ (_six, if you count the smolder-y hand kiss_), and I'm running a quintuple-bladed razor up and down my shins for the second time in as many days. And who counts a relationship in terms of _kisses_?

I do, apparently.

I shimmy into clean, dry clothes in record time, anxious to sample the fresh coffee I can smell even through the girl-scented cloud of steam. My reflection looks as hazy and muddled as I feel. Reddish-brown locks brush limply against my collarbone, left exposed by the gentle scoop of my t-shirt's neckline. It felt bold and alluring when I picked it half an hour ago; now I just feel approximately one-eighth more naked than usual. But since my only available alternative is the rumpled sweatshirt I slept in last night—I am thinking _way too hard _about this. I huff impatiently and towel the clammy droplets off my skin, wrenching the door open with a decisive yank.

And have to duck back into the bathroom to wipe away the _Erin + Fenris _I childishly drew into the condensation on the mirror.

See? Pathetic.

Fenris has already poured coffee into two mugs and is stirring cream into mine when I pad quietly into the kitchen. He smiles—that new, soft smile that speaks to the amorphous, ephemeral certainty that whatever we _are_, at least we're on the same page. "_Ben' aurora_, _dulca_," he greets me with quiet affection. "Good morning," he translates, after realizing I'm simply staring at him in smitten incomprehension.

_Duh, Erin. _"Morning," I manage in return as I accept my mug of pre-adjusted coffee and park myself on the countertop. A mudslide of untidy emotion eats away at the bottom of my stomach as the familiar tableau feels suddenly obscured by layered shrouds of new meaning. For pity's sake, it's just COFFEE. We've done this every morning since he GOT here. I'm being RIDICULOUS. And DUMB. And ADOLESCENT. And—

And I'm _thrilled _to my _marrow_ when he pushes himself away from his usual spot opposite me, and lightly leans into the arm he slips behind my torso. I hold myself very still, fearful of disrupting the bright, charged silence. I glance sideways at the smooth angles of his profile, and catch him doing the same thing. I grin sheepishly—as long as we're _both _clueless, maybe this doesn't have to be so wonderfully, delightfully _strange_. I gently press my spine into the crook of his elbow, an inevitable _yes _to every unspoken question floating in my—_our?_—six hundred square feet.

I bask contentedly in this novel state of sharing, of being, of _together_; I could be wrong (_I don't think I am_) but if the relaxed smile and firefly-quick sidelong glances are any indication, Fenris _might _be doing the same thing. I almost hum as I blissfully realize that we could do this _all day_, this cautious, not-quite-cuddling on my kitchen counter. I _want _to do this all day. I scoot closer by increments, gathering my nerve in measures smaller than atoms, until the ambiguous stretch of leg between my knee and my hip brushes tentatively against his side, and I can curl my arm behind him—not quite an embrace, but the option is there. We're so damn _close_, and I'm so _aware _of _everything_. The contrasting textures of the countertop and the stainless steel sink as my hand brushes the edge, the heat emanating from his markings—will he draw this, too? Some small, selfish (_and all right, vain_) part of me hopes so—I like the thought of _this _being something worth the effort.

Well. I guess I should say I like the thought of him _thinking _of _this _being something worth the effort. But the other thing's true too.

"What are you thinking?"

The sound of his voice—_God_. It's better than chocolate. It melts into my mental circumlocutions and spreads heat through my limbs. I'm almost too busy enjoying it to answer his question. "I'm wondering what to do today," I reply easily. _Not to mention for the next three weeks._

Oh—oh _God. _A riptide of _want _tears through my consciousness and threatens to drag me under. Three weeks, with no one but us? And as an—_us_?

I suddenly don't _care _what we do today. I'm planning on spending a majority of _my _not-insignificant intelligence thinking of a word that will accurately encapsulate the potent, spikey combination of lust, wonder and _fear _that makes me feel as though I'm being electrocuted in slow motion. It's an abrupt change, and if I'm being honest, not _entirely _a pleasant one. I'm only _just now _getting accustomed to _this_—there's no _way_ I'm ready for _that—shit _when was the last time I filled my birth control prescription—

"We've neglected your training," Fenris muses. That infuriating, jelly-legs-inducing smirk sneaks across his entirely-too-kissable mouth, and he meets my eyes over our mugs. "I'd wager you've forgotten what you've learned."

My response to his challenge is primal and immediate: in layman's terms, _it's fucking on_. I face his smirk head-on, matching it with one of my own. Now is not the time for swooning and mooning. "Will I have your _full attention_?"

"Full, rapt and undivided," he assures me, laughter shimmering behind his deadpan expression.

Hey—this flirting thing is _easy, _once you've had six-odd weeks to establish a rapport. And plenty of inside jokes to use as material. I press daringly closer, feeling oddly satisfied when his gaze slowly drops to my mouth and sticks there. "Best two out of three," I challenge him boldly, and slide off the counter before gravity can pull us all the way together. I toss back the rest of my coffee, feeling smug and uncharacteristically cavalier.

I'm still smirking as I slide to one side to let him pass and unlock his door. With a half-mocking, courtly bow, he gestures me inside ahead of him. I feel instantly on the alert for any trace of playful treachery, slipping past him into the cool, empty space. When he pounces, I'm ready for it—but just barely. His arms trap only empty air as I duck, and drive the top of my shin into the back of his knees. He falls backward with an indignant growl, and I waste _no _time. I leap astride him, gripping his wrists and pushing him prone against the bare floor. I grin smugly into his dazed blinking—_one, two, three, MATCH!_—and lean _much _closer than I ever have before (_or would, had he been a mugger or a rapist_). "That's one for me," I murmur.

_Kiss him, kiss him, kisshimkisshimkisshimkisshim—_

A trill of foreboding shivers down my spine as his eyes darken defiantly, as his pupils dilate and he shakes me off him. "It seems I underestimated you," he says, in a come-hither growl that incongruously reminds me of Cherry Pie. "I won't make _that _mistake again." I back away nervously as he smoothly regains his footing, suddenly feeling as though I've inadvertently unleashed—_something_. It picks up speed and shoots between us, and with an acute burst of clarity I know I want to be nowhere _near _the empty bedroom until it…passes us by.

Fenris takes shameless advantage of my momentary distraction; I get a general impression of movement and _fast_, as he rushes forward. He's been right all along—my instincts _do _say to retreat. I swear under my breath, and I don't care that he can probably hear me anyway. I spin on the ball of my foot, trying to buy time while my brain catches up with my body.

That's the idea, anyway. I've forgotten I'm still wearing socks. My spin becomes an absurd pinwheel of arms and legs as I try to keep my balance _and _stay out from underneath a certain lyrium-enhanced elven swordsman, a place that may no longer feel as _safe_—if that's even the right word—as it used to. I'm struck by an abrupt, powerful need to _win_. Exactly what, I'm not sure—this match, our bet, a chance to throw him as _off _as he _constantly _throws me.

His arms close around my shoulders, surrounding me with corded muscles and the familiar tingle of his markings, and he yanks me against him. I clench my jaw against twin spikes of want and temper as my back collides with the unyielding _all _of him. But he's arrested the momentum of my out-of-control spinning. I feel a dark smirk twist my lips up and outward; it's a good opening, and I know better than to waste it. I snap my legs apart, pushing my thighs against his and hooking my ankle around his. It takes the full measure of my upper body strength to do it, but as he begins to lose his balance, I twist and grab his arm just under the shoulder, and pull (_Christ he's heavy_).

Triumph, bold and black as espresso, surges through me; I _feel _him grunt in surprise and, I hope, alarm as the soles of his feet lift off the floor. But then my knees start to buckle, and I forget where to _go _from here. Fenris shows no mercy for my folly. In a movement swift and graceful as swing dancing, he slides off my back and twirls me away from him. His fingers close around my wrist and he yanks me back in, using my momentum against me. _How _I end up on the floor is a confusing blur of skin and lyrium, of the room flipping upside-down and sideways in disjointed snapshots. I land on my side (_"I controlled your falls as best as I could—"_), his weight pressing the crest of my pelvis uncomfortably into the hardwood floor. I shift and roll, seeking relief—and put myself _exactly _where I _didn't _want to be.

"One for me." His triumphant growl caresses the shell of my ear, and I suck my bottom lip between my teeth against a shiver of hot longing. I wriggle against him (_bad idea, bad idea, BAD IDEA_)—our signal for _I give up, please get off me_, and he gallantly lifts me off the hard floor. I note with mild disgust he's barely breathing harder than normal. I, on the other hand, feel like my lungs are about to explode. Though to be fair, that could be due to any number of Fenris-related—um—things.

"Tiebreaker?" I propose, trying not to pant. My only warning is an amused twitch of one eyebrow, before he springs into action. He rushes forward once more, but I'm ready for him this time.

Well. Ready as I will _ever _be. I step lightly to one side (_which is what I was TRYING to do during round two_). He must have been expecting it, because he steps with me and catches my restrained punch in the palm of one hand. _Shit_. Our arms tangle together confusingly (_"—and if I get you HERE you've already lost—"_); we start our slow, rigidly-controlled topple back to the floor, and I know he expects my surrender. I'm tired, I'm frazzled as hell—which only grows hotter as his fingers cradle the back of my head to keep it from bouncing painfully on the floor. I watch on tenterhooks as the masque of emotions plays through his face: surprise, tenderness—but it's the faint, victorious smirk that sends a strange, unfamiliar urgency swimming through my blood.

_Try something I'm not expecting_.

He shudders when my lips graze his. I freeze and hold my breath, not daring to move my gaze away from his (_"—it's something both people involved should want—"_). I retreat by some nameless increment, and give in to the shiver this time when he growls an objection and charges forward. No languorous, liquid warmth is this. This is something _else. _Our mouths feel fused together in a chaotic tangle of lips and tongues—it's hot, urgent, and so basically _carnal _that all I can do is pray I'm not _ashes _by the end. I arch delicately, instinctively—_holy sh—_

Fenris breaks away, inhaling sharply. His eyes have turned dark and soft—if I sought to befuddle him, I think I succeeded. But I'm just as _thrown _as he is. Panic hiccups past the desire _(THAT'S the word I was looking for_); I have to sink my teeth into my bottom lip to guard against a totally inappropriate urge to shoutfor a hand check._ What did I do? Did I touch somewhere I wasn't supposed to? It is WAY TOO EARLY to be screwing this up already—_

"Call it a draw?" I suggest tentatively. _Please please PLEASE let this still be okay—_

His answering chuckle is little more than a brief, warm breath against my neck, but it's enough to make me sag into the unyielding floor in relief. The panic fades, and I realize I'm still underneath him. And our old signal is just _not going to work _anymore.

"Are you hurt?" he asks, frowning faintly in concern.

I shake my head dumbly, not about to tell him all the ways I'm _aching_. He gently helps me to my feet and flicks his fingers at me; I roll my eyes and present him with my side so he can check for himself. He presses his palm against my ribs (_oh Jesus—down, girl_), lips pressed into a thoughtful line until he's satisfied. I twitch under the pressure of his fingers, as the lyrium tingle finds a particularly ticklish spot. "I know I'm _new _at this," I interrupt his ministrations, "but I think even I would be able to tell if my ribs were broken."

"It's not always obvious," he informs me absentmindedly. His hand lingers on my side, gliding intimately from my ribcage to my waist and back again. I sway slightly on my feet, hypnotized and powerless to do anything other than lean into my favorite spot, wrapped up in his unique minty-static musk, just under his collarbone.

I'm only dimly aware of his hand moving—I almost don't care where he puts it. But he only curls it softly against the column of my neck, where I know for a _fact _he can feel my pulse wildly fluttering. Just like I can feel him smile into my hair as he rests his temple on the crown of my head. Just like I know he feels me smiling back. He twines his fingers through mine, and I follow him back into my kitchen for fresh coffee. _This _is easy. I can do _this. _

But _that—_what the _FUCK _was _that_?

And are we going to do it again?


	44. The art of Texmance

I feel strangely bereft, as Fenris begins preparing for work. I watch him with rapt (_creepy_) attention as he gathers his things, marrow-deep thrills jolting through me every time he pauses to _touch_ me—his hand will linger at my waist as he shifts me out of the way to refill his coffee, or he'll curl his palm around my elbow and end up holding my hand. I try to extract every iota of sensation I can from each touch, each moment, because the simple fact is that as little as I want to be trapped with him with nothing to _do _besides try not to think about that kiss, I'm even _less _ready to _share _him. Even if it IS just with his boss.

"Erin—may I ask you something?"

I forcibly unwrap myself from the cotton-candy cloud of pure _feeling _I've been riding. We're in the kitchen again (_it's really the only place that doesn't have a bed or bed-like connotations. Yet_), hip-to-hip and mug-to-mug as we try to squeeze in one more cup of _together_ before he leaves for the tattoo parlor. "Sure," I answer, and try not to read too much into the fact that he's called me _Erin _instead of _dulca_.

"What do you do, while I'm gone?"

_Sit. Study. Wait for you. _"Dance, of course," I answer with an approximate imitation of his matter-of-fact deadpan (_oh come on, we were all thinking it_).

My reward is a rich burst of laughter as he rinses his cup and puts it in the dishwasher. He skims his palms down my arms and brings both my hands to his lips. "Save one for me, hm?" he chuckles, smiling against the backs of my fingers. His forehead touches mine, and his eyes become my whole _world_as soft uncertainty paints over the laughter. "I will think of you all day," he promises me, tone serious.

The silver-blue markings on his chin swim and shimmer as the bottom drops out of my chest; a cold shower suddenly seems like a _brilliant _idea. I can't speak—can't _breathe_, as he brushes a light kiss over my slack mouth and silently slips out the door. Is it _always _going to be like this? Running the gamut from silly to sweet to _sexy_ and back again? My inner rollercoaster shudders and groans under the hot torque of my confusion—will I even be able to keep up?

More than anything, I wish I could _talk _to someone. About _everything_. I have my phone out and Helena's number half-dialed when I stop, and throw it against the couch cushions with more vigor than is strictly called for. This isn't a Helena problem; I can't tell _Helena _I _love_ him, even though he's _supposed _to be _Hawke's_ but he's _here _with _me_. He's not even supposed to be _real_. I _definitely _can't tell Helena I was _this _close to—to _that_. She'll ask why I _didn't_, and that starts a whole other conversation I don't even want to get into with _myself_.

I spin the water on in the bathroom, and jump behind the shower curtain before the water's had a chance to warm up. I shiver in benign self-castigation, letting the cold, pebbly wetness distract me. Then the water heats, and I'm right back where I started. I'm not even really dirty. A second set of clean clothes only exacerbates my fragile, fractious mood as denim and cotton (_and a practically Victorian neckline_) cling to my damp skin. Is _every day_ going to be like this?

Better question: am I really _that _upset by the idea?

_Not really, no. _

Damn. And I was _really _looking forward to obsessing over this all day, too.

Not that I don't try to use my time productively, understand. Flying solo all afternoon and evening affords me plenty of time to do things like laundry. And dust the bookshelves. And attack my already-immaculate floors with a Swiffer mop even though I _loathe _the fake-citrus, too-clean tang it leaves in the air (_do they MAKE unscented wipes? They should_). By the time my drawers are stuffed to bursting with clean, obsessively-folded clothes, and by the time I've wiped down the kitchen counters for the third time, and am contemplating my second batch of Campbell-man-cookies in as many days, night has crept into my complex's courtyard like a cat burglar, and I'm pulling my violin out of its case without really remembering _when _I made the decision to do so.

I inhale a deep breath of resin and wood—_this _is what I need. As much as I love my sister, I don't need Helena, or anyone else right now. I need _structure_. I need _form_. I tighten the nut on my (_normal_) bow, and feel myself already begin to unwind as I skip easily through arpeggios and trills, and the vibrato technique I'm finally getting the hang of. I need something that makes _sense_.

Bach becomes Mozart. Mozart launches into Vivaldi. Vivaldi morphs into an all-encompassing medley of Disney love songs—I can't help grinning as I play through the soundtracks of the classics Fenris and I watched together. Disney gradually gives way to vaguely Celtic-sounding airs and reels, memorized with slavish adoration during my adolescence—and then I'm _gone_.

I lose all track of exactly _what _is coming off my strings. It's stopped making sense; I'm not even using music. Dark and bright, slow and frenetic, and above all, _raw_—it _sounds _like I _feel_. It sounds like what Fenris _makes _me feel. I've lost control, and I don't even _care_. This—_this_, not Bach or Mozart or Vivaldi—is what I _needed_. How weird is _that_? My ever-burning phoenix fire roars out of the simple horsehair bow. It scorches the pads of my fingers as they struggle to keep up with the frantic, emotional pace. Something _almost _connects in my brain; _Fenris _makes me feel this way, makes me want _music_. Why is that _important_—?

The front door clicks closed, just as I halt my bow on the downbeat. I freeze, as though caught in something forbidden. Fenris is _completely _ignoring Scooter's canine exuberance, staring instead at me with an expression that wanders like a drunken Scotsman between awestruck and guilty. My secret's out—I'd rather he _had _caught me dancing. I could laugh off dancing (_I _have _laughed off dancing_).

I lower the curved body away from my shoulder as he crosses the room; the bow's tip brushes against the couch cushions as he carefully navigates around my instrument to cup my face in his palms. "You're _beautiful_ when you play, _dulca,_" he sighs. "I'm sorry I disturbed you."

I've heard "You play beautifully." At least half the people I've heard it from have even meant it. But—_you're beautiful when you play_? What does _that _mean? Whatever it means, he _means _it. And that _scares _me. Just what did he _see_? "It's okay," I manage hoarsely. "I was about played out anyway."

"A pity."

I have no real answer to that. He continues to watch me, as I loosen the horsehair and pack away my secret solace. I slide the case under the coffee table with finality, and he heaves another sigh of deep regret. "Didn't peg you for a music fan," I open with counterfeit nonchalance. "How'd your night go?"

Fenris rolls his eyes at my transparent attempt to change the subject. "I'm not certain how music and ladies' _accoutrement _are supposed to fit together, but I do enjoy music, yes. And my night went fine," he adds, relenting. "If I may ask, when is New Year's Eve?"

I surreptitiously flex my cramped fingers and frown at him, grateful he's let the music thing go for the moment. "Sunday, why?"

His attention darts to my hand as the joints pop into the companionable silence—_crap, he noticed. _But he says nothing. He flops onto the couch, right onto the middle cushion, and sprawls expansively (_is that an invitation?_). I want to kiss away the displeased twist of his mouth, the weary crease between his dark brows—_slow DOWN, Erin!_—but settle for perching next to him, easily within reach if that's what he's seeking—offering—_gah!_ "Mark plans to keep the parlor open late that night—apparently it's a festival of some kind."

"It is," I explain matter-of-factly. "The old year is over, and the new one begins—New Year's Eve." I find a neutral spot of couch for my head and lean back. "We count down to midnight, and then there's a lot of noise and drinking, regrettable decisions—tattoos probably among them." I shrug sympathetically and let my head roll slightly to the side, until my temple brushes his shoulder. "How late is'late'? I could bring you coffee. I _want _to bring you coffee," I insist instantly when he looks ready to demure. And it's true. "You know I'll be awake anyway," I point out.

He grunts in reluctant concession. "It still feels an imposition," he mutters. Unobtrusively he takes my much-abused hand in both of his and slowly works the stiff soreness from my fingers, much like he would after a training session.

I sigh in relief, and lean more heavily into him. Soft, molten contentment pours through me. The steady _press, release _of his grip is positively hypnotic, and my eyelids gradually drift shut. It's hard to reconcile the black-hot passion from this morning (_and the subsequent frantic need for my violin_) with the simple familiarity of just—_being_.

Fenris traces the dents left by my strings in the pads of my fingers. They're already fading; by tomorrow they'll only be a bit tender. "You didn't have to stop, _dulca_," he says softly. "Why did you?"

For exactly one microsecond I consider pretending I don't know what he's talking about—now that _would _be adolescent and dumb. A pink-elephant parade of recitals and competitions plays out across my mind's eye, strangers' gazes with strangers' opinions distorting my memories with dislike. I made first chair, three years running, and _loathed _almost every second of it (_except during school musicals—those were FUN_). "I don't like audiences," I answer instead, sullen, but honest.

"Perhaps if you imagined me in my smallclothes?" he suggests helpfully, innocently.

My eyes snap back open as I rail against doing _exactly _that, and anyway, it's not like I'm _afraid _of having an audience. I just don't _like _to. "Wouldn't really _help_," I quip blandly. "But thanks for the—um—thought." I'm suddenly _very _uneasy, pressed up against him on a relatively soft surface. I brush a quick, too-chaste kiss across his cheek and push myself off the couch. "You're probably exhausted. I'll, um. I'll get out of your way."

"You aren't in my way," he protests mildly, but he lets me go, and stands to unfold the hide-a-bed. I stay to watch him, despite my voiced intent. Part of it is my usual reluctance to let him out of my sight for any stretch of time—I still haven't _quite _ruled out the possibility that I'm simply insane.

But part of it—it's like making up for lost time. Before, when I was still trying _very _ hard _not _to feel what I'm feeling, I _craved _the five or ten feet of space, needing as much distance as was possible between myself and—well, _everything._ Now? Psychotic as it sounds (_and believe me, there's no way to make it NOT sound psychotic—I've tried_), I'd be perfectly content to staple myself to his hip. "Fenris?"

He slants a snow-and-pine glance at me through his hair, eloquent brow quirked interrogatively. I swallow against a surge of rank cowardice, and _make _myself look at him square in the eye. "What did you mean earlier? When you said—what you said?" _I will not look at the bed, I will not look at the bed—_

He gives me one of those _looks_—long, inscrutable and _elven_. The dents in my fingertips start to throb as my pulse quickens nervously; why, why, _why _did I open my big mouth? But then he blinks, and I'm released from the beguiling, dizzying pressure of his gaze. "I meant exactly what I said," he replies with excruciating solemnity, and goes back to tidily arranging his sheet and blanket the way he likes them.

My words again, captured and transformed into something unrecognizable and a little frightening. If he meant _exactly _what he said, when he said what he said, then—

_He just said he thinks you're beautiful, nitwit. Twice._

I don't—_exactly—_remember making the decision to slide forward, or to slowly twine my arms around his neck and lift my lips to his. He barely hesitates before reciprocating; this must be getting easier for him, too. The familiar, unhurried pace is a welcome relief, after the flash-boil kiss this morning. Like chili in dark chocolate, _this _kiss burns slow and sweet, and lingers on my lips long after we've whispered our breathless goodnights and tucked ourselves into our separate (_feverishly indecent, in my case at least_) dreams.

The new folds into the familiar, just like it always has. I run my thesis data through test after test after test, while Fenris fills up every square inch of blank paper to be found with sketches and designs—some of which he even shares with me. They're patterns, mostly; graphite swirls meant to wind around the arm or the wrist. But some stand alone—my favorite is the butterfly, wings spread across the page in an elegant chaos of lines that look a little like his markings, and a little like the Celtic knot tattoo on my shoulder, and a little like neither.

He grins like it's Christmas all over again when I present him with a blank spiral sketchbook, purchased in secret at Hobby Lobby. He tries to protest he can't accept it, that he has nothing for me in return, but subsides when I point out I had nothing _else _for him when he gave me my drawing (_now hanging in the kitchen, framed and carefully placed adjacent to my favorite stretch of countertop_). "Late presents just make Christmas last longer," I explain cheerfully.

Fenris thumbs through the pristine white pages; I fall in love all over again (_I'm CONSTANTLY doing this_) as he presses a soft, sweet kiss upon my mouth, expression alight with images only he can see. "_Graci multi_, _dulca,_" he murmurs, and kisses me again (_and THAT'S when I stop tracking this thing in terms of number of kisses—I've officially lost count_).

"_Mea savitia_," I answer, in my stumbling, clumsy Tevinter, grinning foolishly. We fold onto opposite ends of the sofa, cradling our separate projects in our respective laps so we don't disturb one another. But our feet are touching, soles and arches brushing and pressing against each other. Even separate, we can be _together_. Weird.

We've had to indefinitely postpone our morning sparring matches, though. No flimsy excuses, no well-reasoned justifications, no questions or explanations as to _why _violently rolling around on a horizontal surface is a Bad Idea all of a sudden—we just _stop_.

Which means I have to find _other _ways of letting off steam. Which means Scooter is suddenly getting a _lot _of exercise. Which means Fenris just doesn't really _say _anything when, on the day before New Year's Eve, I arrive home with wet socks squelching morosely in my shoes and various aquatic flora in my hair, because it seemed like a _Good _Idea to just _not let go _of Scooter's leash as she dove after a flock of geese, because a headlong plunge into the river at the tail end of December is _exactly _what I needed.

And as my shivering subsides under the hot shower that feels like a necessary reward instead of one more block out of place in the Jenga tower of my self-control, as I gird myself in denim and wool and let Fenris enfold me in an embrace of wry comprehension over bacon and toast, I firmly tell myself I don't want to know how _he's _handling this. _Unconventional_ as this courtship is (_and I'm still not convinced that's the right word for what we're doing_), that's a boundary I'm not prepared to cross. _Ever_.

New Year's Eve. I'm still wrapped in a towel, turning this way and that in front of the bathroom mirror, barely an hour before I've promised to bring coffee to the tattoo parlor. It's a very _girlfriend _thing to do—is that what I am? Is that what I'm trying to accomplish? My skin smells of honey and citrus—I've used the soap Fenris gave me for Christmas (_and LOVE it_)—and I want him to _notice_. I'm going to be _that _girl: the girl who's been agonizing for _hours _over a man she gets to see for all of five minutes. At this rate I'll be lucky if I even remember to _make _the damn coffee.

I glare helplessly at the disappointing contents of my closet—_Christ, I really _don't _own much besides jeans, do I?_—wondering just how much of a _production _I am willing to make of those five minutes. Listlessly I paw through the denim, the sweaters, the modest necklines, hemlines—_Jesus _don't I own a _dress? _Or _anything else _that says _something _besides "Kiss me, but _just _kiss me"?

"Try the back of your closet," Helena suggests distractedly when I call her in desperation. "And I'm talking about the _way _back." I hear music in the background; she's in her element, in the thick of the New Year's Eve extravaganza Strings puts on every year. "I gotta go babe—good luck tonight!" The way she says _luck _leaves no room for doubt as to her meaning.

I'm snarling at the dead line when I _see _it, _exactly _where she said I should look. It even still has the tags on it. When the hell did I buy _this_? I lift the hanger off the rod and clasp the black fabric against my towel-clad body, trying to get a feel for how it will look before I risk putting it on—no dice. And I'm running out of time. I hurry into a matching bra-and-panties set (_if I'm doing this, might as well do it right, right? Right_), and wriggle into the dress. The sweetheart halter bodice hugs and clings in ways that are unfamiliar, but not uncomfortable; the bell-shaped skirt swishes pleasingly somewhere between my knees and ankles.

And _then _I see the girl in the mirror, and have to reassure myself it's actually _me_. If I wanted something—_different_, I think I have a winner. I don't remember having _hips,_ or—sweet Jesus is that _cleavage_? And—and holy shit I'm _pale_.

And I do _not _have time to freak out about this _any more_. My phone buzzes an alarm as I'm forcing my arms into unnatural contortions to unzip myself, snidely reminding me to actually make coffee. I twist my hair into a clip as it brews, too-short bangs falling into my face as I fill two Styrofoam cups with the dark, aromatic blend. I catch another glimpse of the stranger in the mirror as I duck in and out of my closet for my one pair of dress shoes, wobbling slightly in the ballet-toe pumps as I juggle car keys and coffee. I wish like _hell _my sister was here to tell me if I managed to stay on the right side of the line between _sexy _and _slutty_. I align my phone's camera with my reflection to snap a quick photo, and hit _Send_.

It takes all of _ten goddamn seconds _for Helena to reply. Her message simply reads, _Go_.

It'll have to do. I toss off an ironic salute to the mirror, and flounce into the night. I know what I'm doing.

I hope.


	45. Old fashioned

I'm not sure what I was expecting from a place called Mystic Mark's Body Modifications, honestly. It probably says something about how _narrow _my world gets that I've never actually been inside; the clean fluorescent lighting and black leather couch are a far cry from the dingy interior and head-shop smell I'd somehow imagined. A large flat screen TV hangs on one wall, tuned to the annual frenzied gaiety in Times Square as far-away crowds gather to watch the ball drop. The shop itself is not as crowded as I had anticipated (_like I need MORE people staring at me_); the crowds must not have reached the _Omigod I'm gonna get a tattoo _level of inebriation yet.

Mark himself, however, looks _exactly _like I thought he would: clearly a product of some bizarre but undoubtedly beautiful union between Cheech Marin and Bruce Willis. Burly muscle has long since gone to seed; a thick moustache droops past the corners of his mouth to join forces with the salt-and-pepper patch covering his chin. Ink splashes across every spare inch of skin I can see, disappearing briefly under the sleeves of a vintage Grateful Dead t-shirt; I can the top of an iconic Our Lady of Guadalupe icon peeking out of his collar.

He glances up from a thick three-ring binder as my heels click across the white tile floor, and looks me up and down in frank, appreciative assessment. My car keys jingle as I shift nervously under the bold scrutiny. He clucks his tongue, dark eyes glinting with amusement. "_Ay, chica, _you're too young to be here for me," he sighs, too mournfully to be serious. "Fitzy!"

_Fitzy? _

"With a client," comes Fenris's distracted, impatient reply from behind a closed door farther towards the back. "And please don't call me Fitzy."

My fly-on-the-wall curiosity sharpens at what is evidently a routine exchange, at this pie-slice of Fenris's life that doesn't actually involve me. Mark rolls his eyes at me, grinning as if he's letting me in on some private joke. Who knows? Maybe he is. He gestures invitingly at the couch, and I try to figure out just how best to approach _sitting _with two hot cups of coffee and a dress I've never worn before. In the end, I perch on the edge of the middle cushion, shaved legs crossed primly at the ankles and palms sweating against the warm Styrofoam cups.

Minutes tick by, as Mark goes back to the binder of templates and I endure the torturous, awkward silence that ensues. This was a terrible idea—maybe the _worst_ terrible idea in the history of terrible ideas. My back is cold, it's almost midnight, and I'm about to drop this damn coffee all over the floor. _Why _did I go to all this _fuss_? I didn't _need _to—it's _coffee, _with _Fenris_. Why _should _I fuss over Fenris and coffee?

_You __**wanted**__ to._

That just about covers everything, doesn't it?

"So—you and Fitzy are a thing, huh?"

_Oh dear Jesus—_I much prefer the awkward silence to the excruciating small talk. And what does _thing _mean? _Interested_? Yes. _Kissing on a regular basis_? Yes. _Sleeping together? _No. "We're roommates, kinda," I say aloud, setting the coffee on the floor for a brief moment so my palms don't completely singe.

Mark blinks at me, turtle-like in his eloquent, unhurried skepticism. "My 'roommate, kinda' don't dress like that for me," he snorts. "Not since we been married, anyway."

I gingerly pick up the coffee before standing as the door to the back room clicks softly open—_I'm saved_. A woman (_and I'm only being objectively, brutally bitchy when I say 'harlot'_) saunters out in Barbie-doll stilettos and a dress that's more _little _than _little black dress_, and gives me a long, lazy once-over. I can't decide if I'm suddenly _really glad _I fussed, or if it just makes me feel _more _like a child caught playing dress-up in Mommy's nice clothes. Ink bleeds into the fresh bandage covering her shoulder, but it does nothing to mar her plastic beauty, or the harsh realization that whoever she is (_and I don't actually care_), she just spent at least an hour with Fenris's hands on her skin. _My _Fenris.

Are we a thing? The surge of jealousy says _yes we are, thank you VERY much while I scratch your baby-blue eyes out with a spork._

And I'm usually such a _level-headed _person.

Mark's busy with Fenris's (_slutty_) client, counting out change with swift, efficient movements. I have _no idea _what I'm doing, what I'm _supposed _to do. Do I just—_go in_? Take Fenris his coffee, kiss hello, kiss goodbye and walk out again? I know what I would _like _to happen—I'd like it _very much _if _my _lyrium-enhanced-elven-swordsman-_whatever-_he-is would come out here, and in front of this leggy monstrosity, Mark, and anyone passing by on the street, kiss me brainless. _Me._ _Erin_. I'm not into PDA—usually—but I'd make an exception, just this once.

But it's probably not going to happen. For one thing, I'm not sure Fenris even knows I'm _here_—

"Fitzy!" Mark bellows as Sticks-and-Balloons totters out the door with a _ding _of the bell hung on the handle. "Your girl's here!"

_Run. Just drop the coffee and run. You can explain and apologize later—_

"My _what_?"

Mark winks one beetle-black eye at me and waves me onward. The _flight _half of _fight or flight _would now be too awkward to accomplish gracefully (_which is basically the same as impossible, in this instance_) so what's left? My hem brushes the tops of my bare, smooth shins as my heels click-clack forward. "He means me," I call as I nudge the door open with my foot. "I think."

The surprise, I expected—even wanted. The confusion, I can handle—_I'm _confused as shit; I can only imagine how he's feeling right now. But the moss-green eyes brighten to sunlight-and-leaves as his gaze sweeps me up and down, and it's not just surprise and confusion anymore. He's _stunned_. He's _speechless_. I've hit him straight between the eyes—_me. Erin_. There is no way I'm ready for _this_. For _that_. For him to look at me like he doesn't even _recognize _me. For him to _look _at me like—like—

"Yours is the one on the left," I blurt idiotically. "_Your _left, not—not my left."

Fenris blinks—_hard—_and seems to come back from wherever I accidentally sent him. His fingers brush mine as he plucks his cup from my hand and takes a sip. Soft pleasure curls his lips into a smile; it looks like I got the amount of sugar just right (_which makes the extra level of creeper I've been all worth it, in my book_). "Thank you for coming," he murmurs. "I needed this."

_Needed coffee, or needed me? _I'm overthinking things again. "No problem," I assure him, as if I _hadn't _spent almost five hours obsessing over this exact moment. He offers the empty parlor chair, and expertly wheels his artist's stool closer as I navigate the strange shape with a hot drink in my hand. "Happy New Year."

His smile deepens as he bumps cups with me. "Happy New Year," he echoes. And just like that, things are normal (_well, normal as they ever get, considering_). It's just coffee with Fenris. So what if I'm in a dress? So what if we're sitting in his place of employment instead of my kitchen?

"I am pleased to see you, _dulca_," he confesses quietly.

There's that _look _again—that forest-and-sunshine expression that makes me want to do something crazy. Something that will put a little distance between me and this frightening, _incredibly _satisfying idea that I have the ability to send him _anywhere_, let alone the same place he sends me on a minute-by-minute basis.

_Ten—nine—_

I slide off my precarious perch as the Times Square countdown drifts from the television set in the other room, and set my cup down on the wheeled cart of instruments beside the chair. "We have this tradition," I offer tentatively, swaying toward him as if drawn by gravity. "For tonight, I mean." He watches me in wordless question as my hemline brushes against his jeans, a whip-crack of wariness flitting through his face. "We count down from ten as we watch the ball drop, and when we get to zero—we kiss."

_Seven—six—_

"I would be permitted to—to kiss you? When you look like—_this_?" He gestures helplessly at my dress, at the miles of skin left exposed by the summer-style dress I've stupidly decided to wear in the dead of the Texan winter. "Erin, I—"

_Five—four—_

"It's supposed to bring good luck," I explain hurriedly. "And of course you'd be permitted." _Three— _"If—if it's okay with you," I finish, racked with doubt and self-conscious loathing. I _knew _the dress was _the _worst idea, _ever._ I should have just worn jeans and a sweater, like I'd planned to before I went _completely fucking insane_.

_Two—one—_

"Yes," he whispers raggedly. "Yes, it is 'okay' with me."

_Zero. _

It snaps to life and flies like a firework, whistling hotly as Fenris threads his fingers through my hair, lyrium-etched fingers tingling against my scalp, and drags me with him into the first kiss of the new year. The roar of blood in my ears completely drowns out the frenzied, happy screaming of the downtown crowd. His palms skim across my bare back, and I press myself into every square inch of him I can conceivably reach. I cling to his neck for support as lips and tongues sweep across each other, as his hands find curves I'm fairly certain weren't there before. He lifts me off my feet and settles me over his lap in the vacant chair. I gasp into his mouth and bend into him; the black fabric of my dress whispers wantonly as he grasps my hips in both hands and pulls me closer than I thought was even physically possible. My hand dips boldly under his collar, looking for new places to explore, to _touch_ as I start to _drown _in pure sensation. There are _worse _ways to—to do _this, _I suppose—

The bell on the front door jangles rudely, and Fenris _tears _us apart in the wake of the silence that follows. "I—I cannot do this," he rasps.

Oh. Oh God. Oh sweet fucking Jesus holding a jack-o'-lantern. I'm a _monster_. I'm the type of girl who's actually the type of guy who _pressures_. Who _pushes_. What am I _doing_? I'm _seducing _him, that's what. Or I _was_, like an _asshole_. I'm _pond scum_.

_He DID say yes—_

SO NOT THE TIME.

I scramble frantically off him, almost sending coffee and ink and needles flying in my hurry. "I'm sorry," I hiccup breathlessly. "I shouldn't have—I'm sorry." I smooth my skirt down and try to look as not-sexy as possible—harder than it sounds, since I didn't know I looked sexy in the first place. Where the ever-loving flying fuck are my keys? "I don't know what—we're usually so—I'm sorry," I say for a third time. I spot my keychain on top of the wheeled cart, and fish it out from between the two forgotten coffee cups. This is the last time I try to be a _girl, _about _anything_. "I'm—"

"_Venhedis, _woman, stop apologizing," Fenris interrupts, sounding strained and short-tempered. "There is no need. _I'm _sorry." He doesn't look at me as he hoists himself out of the chair and straightens his plain black t-shirt. _Why won't he look at me?_ "I'm sorry," he repeats, more gently. "I—I went too far."

Wait—_what_? _He _went too far? "I don't understand—you _didn't _go too far, Fenris," I try to reassure him.

I don't think it worked, because he shakes his head in blunt rejection. "I did," he insists, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. "You—you're important. _Too _important, to—to—_venhedis faasta vas, dulca_, I can't _want _you!"

I'd rather he'd slapped me. Or plunged that lyrium-blue fist into my chest and ripped out my heart. Anything but _this_. "So, what? You kiss me like—like _that_, because you don't want me?" My incredulous laughter sounds brittle and cold in my ears. "Talk about your mixed messages."

"I didn't say I _don't _want you," he corrects me waspishly. "I—I almost—_futis_." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and finally meets my eyes. "I cannot cheapen you thus. I _will _not."

I gape at him, trying to decide if I'm angry, or if I just can't believe this is happening to me. _Me. _Anger would be easier. I probably _would _be angry, if I thought for one instant he didn't mean _exactly _what he said. But he _does; _I can feel my heart _shatter _under the crushing weight of his sincerity. But—I'm _too important? _ How can I be _too important? _In what universe could I—_me, Erin—_be _too important _to _anyone, _least of all _Fenris_, for—for _that_?

_In what universe could a lyrium-enhanced elven swordsman want to court you? _

This—this is _nuts_. This was _never _going to work; I don't know _what _made me believe otherwise. "You've got customers," I murmur, tone deadened. "I'll—um—I'm gonna head home. Get out of your way." Not to mention I'm _freezing _in this dress.

This _stupid fucking dress—_

"I'll walk you out—don't argue," Fenris insists wearily. "Let me do this. Please."

_Well, since he asked so nicely. _"Fine," I give in. It isn't worth fighting about; the sooner I can get home and change into something that _doesn't _make me feel like a sluttier Jessica Rabbit, the better off we'll _both _be. The midnight breeze raises goose bumps over my shoulders; in any other moment, I'd tug his arm around me, as much for warmth as for the simple joy of being _close _to him. But now—now the rules have changed. I didn't even know there _were _rules. Our _only _rule was "we'll make it up as we go."

Ha. Look how well _that's _turned out. I'm apparently _too important_ to _cheapen_. "Are you sorry you kissed me?" I burst out abruptly. "Ever?"

He snaps sharply to attention, hand resting on my car's door handle. "No," he answers. "I'm not."

_That, I can work with_. "I'm not sorry I kissed you, either," I confess, blunt with challenge. "And I'll tell you something else. What we are—_whatever _we are, we're not _cheap_. We would _never _be _cheap_." I slide into the driver's seat and turn the key in the ignition. "Enjoy the coffee."

It takes every meager ounce of dignity I have to yank my door shut against his dumbfounded expression. His reflection burns into my rearview mirror as I pull out of my hard-won parking space—hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched as the snow-white head follows my departure.

I keep it together. I have to—this may not be Austin proper, but there is still no shortage of idiots clogging the roads. I won't fall apart until I'm home, safe and warm (_and depressingly Fenris-less_) in my least-sexy, favorite flannel pajamas, fuzzy socks, and the thickest, most shapeless sweater I can find. He won't be home—back—_no, it's still home_—until after three anyway; I could put on a sad movie, cry myself out, and be in bed before he even knows just _how much _I'm _hurting_.

I kick my heels off, sending them skidding across the floor and into the wall with a venomous double thump. An hour—_not even _an hour, and I just _know _my feet will be punishing me later. I scoop some extra food into the cats' bowls before unzipping myself out of this _fiasco _of a dress. Scooter sniffs inquisitively as she trails behind me; I can't even muster the will to scold her as she paws at the crumpled pile of fabric I've left on the floor. I'm freezing, and exhausted, and _alone_. I ensconce myself in flannel and wool, put on _The Lion King_, and bawl _way _harder than is really called for (_even if Mufasa's IS one of the saddest cinematic deaths EVER_).

I'm tucking myself in when the front door swings quietly open and closed again. I _feel _him move through the apartment—greeting Scooter, locking the door—and it all sounds so _normal _that all it's missing is _me_, chattering brightly at him about basically _anything_, just for the chance to _be _with him for another thirty seconds—

I can't do this.

I kick out from under my covers. This may be fucked up, but it's _always _been fucked up, and I am _not _about to let _this _fucked-up fuck up _our _fucked-up.

I don't know _how _that even makes sense, but it does.

I narrowly avoid crashing into Fenris's chest, stumbling to an abrupt halt in my bedroom doorway. He unclenches a tight, upraised fist and shoves the empty hand into his back pocket; had he been about to knock? "Hi," I greet him warily.

"You're still awake," he observes, with none of his customary acuity. "That—that doesn't actually make this easier."

I knew it. We're breaking up. We're breaking up before we've even given ourselves a chance to be something that could_ be_ broken up, and it's _all my fault, _because I couldn't keep it in my goddamn pants. "Fenris, don't—" _Don't say goodbye, PLEASE don't say goodbye before I've had a chance to FIX this—_

"_Dulca, _please just—I must say this." He takes a deep, shuddering breath, and continues unsteadily, "Tonight, when we—when I—I'm _not _sorry." He glowers through me, as if he could his answers printed on the inside of my skull. "Perhaps I should be. I thought I was. I took abominable liberties with your person. It _should _feel—cheap. Dishonorable." He blinks himself out of his frustrated glare, and then he's looking _at _me, _into _me, with an intensity I've never seen from _anyone, _even him. "But it doesn't. And now I must ask you something."

The air whooshes out of my lungs as a wave of nerves twists my gut with nausea. I back out of the doorway—it's anyone's guess whether I'm letting him in or trying to _run._ "Ask me—what do you want, Fenris?" I groan in exhaustion and _want _and _hurt_. "It's late, I'm tired, _you're _tired—"

"I want to know what we would be," he growls over my lame protests and half-hearted demurrals. "You said we would never be cheap." He stalks my footsteps in the wake of my unconscious retreat, prowls my dimly-lit square of existence like the predator I've _always _known him to be. "So _what would we be?_"

_So wait—we're NOT breaking up? This is a GOOD thing, right? _I feel like an astronaut late to launch, dangling by one arm on the outside of his shuttle and knowing, with absolute certainty, he is _fucked to shit _but is powerless to do anything except continue to hang on for the ride. This is too much—_too much._ I don't have any more answers for him, and only one question. "Why are you in here, Fenris?" I ask hopelessly, not at all certain I even care about the answer anymore.

He claims my desk chair and wheels it so close my toes wiggle against his knees. He rests his palms on the tops of my feet, and slants a soft and dark _look_ at me through that silky forelock I will never get tired of wanting to brush out of the way. "I am in here," he replies slowly, clearly, "to be with you."

Extra, extra, read all about it. It turns out I _do _care about that answer. "Are you asking what I think you're asking?" I have to know. I _have _to, if this is going to go anywhere _near—that._ I've had enough _misunderstandings _tonight.

We may not be psychic, but at least he doesn't have to ask what _I _think he's asking. His lips barely even move as he whispers, "_Yes_."

My defensive, roly-poly curl doesn't have _nearly _enough room for the firecracker burst of _joy _that screams through my limbs, that sends every atom of caution winging south and leaving only _want _in its place. I could be coy. I could be playful. I could be sultry. Given ten minutes with some satin and lace, and I could be _anything_.

Or I could take _now_, and just be _me_.

I unfurl slowly; lyrium crackles against my palms as I tangle my fingers with his and tug him gently to his feet. "Anything you don't want me to touch?" I ask hesitantly, rising to my knees on the mattress (_so, so, SO glad I shaved. Again_).

Fenris opens his mouth to answer, then clicks it shut again with a helpless shrug. "This may surprise you," he says with a twitchy, trembling hint of his usual deadpan snippiness, "but I've never actually done this before."

He watches my face with careful, vulnerable attention as he lets me pull him closer, lets me press his palms against my cheeks so he can _feel _me smile. "If it makes you feel better," I offer, only teasing him a _little_, "you're my first lyrium-enhanced elven swordsman."

My hands skate over his chest as he bends across the infinitesimal distance between our lips to kiss me. "Do you know, that _does _make me feel better," he chuckles huskily, and I shiver in happy response as I feel it rumble under my fingers. He buries his hands in my hair, tilting my head to an almost unnatural angle until we both tumble into the inviting haven of soft, well-worn covers. I slip my hands under his shirt as his lips unerringly find mine; he gasps in surprise, and I still my exploration instantly. He shakes his head, and reaches awkwardly behind his back to coax me into continuing.

I am perfectly content to oblige him.

Arms and sleeves and sheepish grins twist together as I reach for the hem of Fenris's t-shirt at the same time he tries to peel off my sweater. I _can't stop _kissing him (_and Jesus, why WOULD I?_), reaching for him as soon as we're untangled. I wrap my legs around his waist as he hoists me into his lap, pressing myself into him with everything I have. He maps the new with lips and hands and that _terrifying _moss-dark stare; I hiss with sensation every time he finds a pocket of _want _I didn't know existed. I memorize the lyrium pathways with my fingers, reveling in every gasp, in the litany of _Erin, dulca, Erin _he whispers against my bare skin.

And then he dips his tingling fingers under the elastic waistband of my pajama pants, and it's my turn to have my breath stolen away. I push backwards off his thighs and wriggle out of the polka-dot flannel. Fenris drags the waistband over my feet, drinks in the sight of me—_me,_ naked except for a pair of black panties as my pajamas fall forgotten to the floor. "_Deorum elysia_," he swears hoarsely (_and there's that LOOK again!_). "I—may I touch you, _flamma_?"

I swallow past a mouth gone dry and balance my weight on the heels of my hands, unable to take my eyes off his face, off _him_. I haven't been this _nervous, _this _unsure _of myself in bed since _my _first time. _I'm _the experienced one; I should be taking the lead-I should be guiding this with a gentle, sexy quip and a smile. But no-all I can do is _nod,_ and wait for him to choose _where _he touches me.

Then he _does,_ and I'm _lost_.

And then I'm frantically pulling him toward me, falling back into the nest of pillows and sheets. And then I'm more hindrance than help as he impatiently kicks out of his jeans, as he claims me in a feverish, tender kiss that _offers _and _begs _at the same time.

_And then—_

Then we both go up like marshmallows, consumed in sweet, sugar-blue flame.


	46. Smart people can be so fucking stupid

**AN:** Quick announcement: RL-Boyfriend and I are moving! We're in Old Place for about another month, which will be spent packing (a joint effort) and panicking (just me). I'll do my utmost to get at least one more update in before we leave Old Place in the dust, and can only beg your indulgence, happy thoughts and good vibes as RLBF and I ride off into the sunset-even if the back of a U-Haul is somewhat less romantic than actually _riding _off into the sunset.

I am touched, grateful and frankly honored at how well, and how gently y'all received my first _real _attempt at smut. Special thanks go of course to **Taffia_,_** for patiently reviewing every new sentence and paragraph I sent her; to **Liso66, DKAllayna, The Original Frizzi, Wynterkiss **(I don't mind being told I'm awesome nine million times), **Nameless-Sinner, .Heart**...so many of you who have taken the time to read this and drop me a line, whether you feel like you have something to add or not. Thank you.

* * *

><p>"Have I hurt you, <em>dulca<em>?"

That _would _be his first question, wouldn't it?

My sweat-slicked skin glides against the mint-and-static labyrinth of Fenris's markings as I stretch experimentally underneath him. I'll admit it's _been a while_, even before Charlie and I broke up (_and I'm probably breaking some unspoken but essential rule, thinking about Charlie right after my first time with Fenris_), but all the moving parts seem to be—um—fine. _Fine _here having the meaning of as far _opposite _on the spectrum from hurt as you can get. I'm numb in all the best ways, body, heart and soul _overflowing _with everything it's taken to _get _here.

Not that I _planned _this. But this has definitely got to be one of the better possible outcomes of anything we start lately.

"I'm _peachy_," I purr, _really _enjoying the way we click and mold together. "Are _you _okay?"

For a glacial, terrible moment, he's so _still _I'm afraid his answer will be _no_. No heartbeat, no breath penetrates the bubble of anticipatory silence; I cease my lazy, almost seductive movements and force myself to wait, to keep _still_. But then his hips shift against mine, and he lifts his face out of the hollow between my neck and my shoulder where he's collapsed in exhaustion. I breathe with him, an in-and-out sigh of relief in perfect tandem, as he rests his forehead on mine and _smiles_. "Yes," he replies simply—no chance of mistaking his meaning there.

The cold fear thaws, and I melt instantly back into the mattress, free to twist and press against him as I wish. The gentle glow from my bedside lamp washes over us; I slide the arch of my foot up and down his calf, kiss his fingers as he strokes my cheek—_just keep touching me, babe_.

Two bodies of matter cannot occupy the same space at the same time. We try—we stay _together _for as long as we both can stand it. And even after physics drives us apart, forces our combined _one _into separate _twos_, he pulls me with him as he rolls onto his side, close as we can manage. I snuggle into his chest, lazily dropping kisses across skin and lyrium and white lines of scar tissue. This is wonderful. This is amazing—_incredible_. This is—

"You were right, _dulca_," he murmurs, kissing me softly.

I (_finally_) give in to an impulse and brush the damp, white forelock away from his forehead, taking care to avoid the ticklish points of his ears, and touch a kiss to the exposed skin. "Four of my favorite words," I quip happily. "Right about what?"

"It wasn't—_isn't _cheap." Fenris traps my hand in his and presses a kiss against the backs of my roaming fingers, never taking his eyes off my face. I can see every bright flicker of amber in the steady green gaze, even without my glasses (_take a minute to appreciate how close he has to be for THAT_).

My heart kick-drums into overdrive; he'd have to be _dead _not to feel it. "So—you were afraid it would be?" I ask hesitantly. "And you still—?"

My descent into the _afterwards _torpor grinds to a halt when he nods, expression grave. "I still," he answers solemnly.

"Why?"

We're as close as two people can get without being _that_ close, and still I feel as though he's looking at me from across untold distances of thought. The amber-bright flecks dim and disappear into pensive jade as he brushes the pad of his thumb over my cheek. "You were so _certain_," he finally answers. "I could either trust you, or fear you." He rolls again, and I'm back underneath him, both hands somehow tangling with his as he considerately rests the bulk of his weight on his elbows. "And I can't find it in me to fear you, _flamma."_

_He trusts me. _The idea crawls into my throat and swells, tries to choke out tears that have absolutely no business intruding on this moment. Fenris—_Fenris—__**trusts**_ me.

"_Venhedis. _I _am _hurting you—"

I arrest his retreat with my entire being. He grunts in muffled surprise as I yank him closer, arms and legs and lips all single-mindedly joined in the task of kissing him stupid.

Which never turns out _exactly_ the way I imagine, since I end up a little stupid too.

"So—you're _not _hurt, then?" Fenris surmises when we come up for air. For _once_, I don't feel the need to ask what he's thinking (_or stare creepily at him trying to guess_). For _once, _I know _exactly _how he feels. It's _pouring_ off him; emotion and sensation and _everything_ swirling messily together in a sun-forest _look _that doesn't scare me nearly as much as it did a few hours ago.

I shake my head, _beaming_ with my whole body as I trace random patterns in the blank spaces between his markings. He arches his spine into my hands, catlike, seeking my touch just as his lips find interesting hollows in the column of my neck, under my collarbone.

_Just keep touching me._

We tangle the new and the familiar up like sheets. I've spent a shocking amount of time underneath him, after all; this is _easy_. The naked thing is an adjustment, I'll admit. But I'm already getting used to it. And the way he twitches when I find a ticklish spot between two ribs. And the way he smirks with smug discovery when his lips brush the skin behind my earlobe, and I gasp. And the way my skin tingles wherever he touches me—

Maybe this is more _new _than I thought.

"It's nice," Fenris murmurs drowsily against the tattoo on my shoulder. "Being certain. I know what we are, now."

"Naked?" I suggest helpfully, turning onto my other side to face him. "In bed? Together?"

"All true," he concedes, and grins against my skin as though he's making up for the moment of solemnity. "Though 'lovers' seems a more expedient expression of the same thing."

Lovers. Fenris—_Fenris_ and I—_me, Erin_—are now _lovers_. The word tumbles giddily over and over in my head, seashells doing somersaults out of Venus's hand as she skips out of her shell-boat and into a vibrant sky (_oh wait—that's me doing the skipping_). _Loversloversloverslovers—_one more piece of our puzzle of _everything _has shifted perfectly into place. For the first time since almost _ever_, I know _exactly _who he is to me. Who I am to him.

We're _lovers_.

"You seem pleased," Fenris ventures, focus intent on my face. "You _are _pleased," he concludes, blushingly smug as he responds to some mysterious, subtle signal only he can see.

"What makes you say that?" I ask, fingers threading into his hair as I arch contentedly into a long, languorous kiss.

He's grinning again (_assuming he ever stopped_) as he disengages, mapping the line of my jawbone from lips to my earlobe with a trail of tingling, feather-soft kisses. "Your toes are curling," he sighs laughingly into my hair.

_Riiiiggghht. _I've forgotten about _that _particular dead giveaway.

Subtlety's overrated anyway.

He shivers gratifyingly as I follow the lines of his markings over his hip and down his thigh; my (_full_) attention sparks back to life in the wake of his touch—probing, exploring, _asking_. "Is it always like this?" he gasps, sizzling with a hot alchemy of desire and curiosity.

_—_

I hook one knee around his and roll him underneath me—my inevitable _yes. _I bite down on a moan and settle for a long sigh, as he spreads kisses over skin and curves. "Let's find out," I suggest, in a low, throaty hum I don't really recognize as mine (_oh, NOW I can be sultry?_). But I already know the answer.

Never, in a million years, could it be like _this_.

I wake once, in a space between heartbeats of black predawn and starlight, to find myself still cradled against his chest. The beat of his pulse under my cheek, the rise and fall of his breathing that calls to mind the primitive rhythm of sea and shore (_he gets bonus points for not being a snorer_)—each is its own hypnotic, beautiful music that sings into me and finds an echo between my ribs. I blink back into slumber, smiling and _safe_.

There are certain disadvantages to sleeping in an east-facing bedroom. Chief among them, a depressing inability to sleep any later than the moment the fierce morning sun slices through the cat-shaped holes in the blinds. I roll away from it, seeking the marginally-shadier wall on the other side. One arm reaches across the mattress for the lean, warm body I remember falling asleep with last night (_this morning, technically_), and finds only rumpled sheet.

I bolt upright off my pillow. My heart's done a nosedive out of my chest and is pounding a dread, sick rat-a-tat somewhere around my toes. I am t-minus one Fenris from a full-scale meltdown. If I take deep breaths—I mean _really _deep breaths—maybe the shaking won't start. How, how, _how _could I have forgotten _this_? With numb fingers I fumble my glasses and manage to get them onto my face. I am a goddamn first-class _idiot_.

I swing my legs out from under my covers and grope mechanically for clothes. My hands convulsively open and close on the edge of my mattress; my legs dangle in empty air as I drag the first thing I grab over my head. Which just so happens to be Fenris's shirt. I almost lose it, choking on a wave of minty-static musk but strangely unwilling to do anything about it. It's difficult to gauge how long I sit there, trying to bridge the gap between what was arguably the best night of my life, and this awful, empty, _inevitable _ache.

Okay. _Okay. _I need to calm down and _think _about this. So _what _if he's not here, _right now_? The world is not limited to this room. He could be doing any one of a _thousand _other things. Like—like making coffee, or using the bathroom, or learning to _juggle_, for all I know. He doesn't have to be—he doesn't have to _remember_, and then _not _remember.

_Do you really believe that?_

My legs miraculously hold me up on the gallows-walk from bedroom to living room. Whether I believe or not, I won't _know _until I find out. Which won't _happen _unless—

—he's sitting on my couch.

Something reaches inside and hollows me out, watching him hunch over the coffee table. There he is, ladies and gentlemen—the man I love. He doesn't seem to know I'm here yet; he's focused utterly on his sketchbook, laid flat on the wooden surface as his hand flies gracefully over the blank pages. He's (_obviously_) not wearing a shirt; dim sunlight filters through the living room curtains and shimmers over his bare shoulders, dances over the patchwork beauty of silver-blue markings and bronzed skin.

_God Christ Jesus he's beautiful_. Beautiful and strange and for approximately four hours and forty-six minutes, he was _mine_. Not Hawke's, not Danarius's.

_Mine_.

Some odd awareness, some unseen signal leaps across the space between us, and Fenris's hand stills. I wrap my hurt around me like a cloak; it's almost comforting, knowing the general shape of what's coming. Now, all that's left is to find out which morning-after line comes first: _It was fine_ or—

"Come here," Fenris commands softly, rising. "I want to show you something."

Or that.

Wait, _what?_

His touch jolts through my numb haze of anticipatory hurt as he gently but insistently pulls me with him onto the sofa. I nervously tug the hem of my (_his_) shirt over my thighs, trying to preserve _some _shred of modesty, and press my knees together. This isn't at _all _what I expected—even though I was _trying _not to expect _anything_. The moss-soft gaze, the warm, tingling pressure of his fingers against mine—this isn't how it goes at _all_. And f_uck _why didn't I put on _pants_?

With a care that borders on reverence, Fenris places his sketchbook in my lap. I stare, all broken incomprehension, at the incomplete sketch; vivid, impatient pencil strokes tangle together on the blank white space to form shapes and faces I have never seen, nor likely will _ever _see. I sense more than see Fenris nod in wordless permission, and I start to turn the pages backward as though I am a puppet on strings. More places, more faces, all rendered in swift, black strokes. These aren't—these _can't _be—

"My memories," he explains softly. As if he _needed _to explain. "They've started to return."

My lungs begin to burn as the air inside them goes stale (_have I SERIOUSLY forgotten to fucking BREATHE?_) I pull in one gasping, shuddering gulp of air, gaze snagging on lyrium and scars as I lift my face out of my lap—out of _his memories, sweet __**Jesus**_. I can't name—can't _know _the expression stamped on the familiar, tanned planes and shadows of his face. It's _awestruck_. It's _fearful_. It's _wary_. It's so full of _hope _I could burst into tears simply by being too near to him, if not for everything _else_.

He's _remembered_. And he's _here_—completely, totally _here_. And he hasn't _not_-remembered. He _can't _not-remember, because I'm _holding _what he's remembered. My attention tumbles back to the sketchbook, where it is arrested utterly and held captive as I continue to turn the pages. They aren't all _pleasant _images, either—not by a long shot. I trace a line of pencil with my fingertip, almost able to hear the whip crack against the hapless form chained to a hastily sketched post. It's _brutal_. It's _merciless_. And he _remembers _it, and a _gallery _of other, similar images that feel like torture just to _see._

My hand trembles as it comes to the end (_the beginning?_). The lean elven man on the page before me is smirking at the woman he holds in his arms—also elven. I _know _that smirk. I _know _the straight, uncompromising line of that nose, the eloquent language of that brow captured mid-quirk. I know the shape of the large, round eyes in the woman's face, frozen forever in a lover's smile. _Oh God. Oh God oh God oh God—_

"Say something, _dulca_," Fenris implores. He sounds _exhausted_—how long has he been at this? "Say anything."

_You remembered. You're here. You're STILL here. _"You're supposed to be _Hawke's_," I answer his plea in a small, lost voice.

_Christ. You could've started singing the alphabet at him and it would've been better than that._

He rocks away from me on his seat, looking at me as though I'd slapped him. "What, in the name of everything sacred would make you say _that_?" he growls, low, soft, and _furious_.

_I will not look at the Xbox. I will not look at the Xbox. I WILL NOT look at—shit. _

Fenris follows the all-too-obvious direction of my scattered thoughts as easily as if they'd been a paved brick road, and draws a deep breath in through his nose. His cold, lethal fury miraculously seems to subside; now he looks merely irritated (_VERY irritated, but it's still an improvement_). "Tell me," he sighs resignedly.

I flush with shame, unable to face him. I have never in my life felt so astonishingly _stupid_ as I do _right now_, mumbling into my bared knees, "You remember. After—_afterwards. _But then you forget again. I don't know why," I interrupt myself hastily, as if that somehow makes it _okay _I've just royally stepped in it. "I don't think _anyone _really knows why. But you forget. And then—you leave."

He's silent for a long, strained. "And you believe me capable of this?" he finally demands, and he sounds—_hurt._ I _am _a monster. I've _hurt _him, because I should _know _better. I _do _know better. And whatever else Fenris—_my_ Fenris—is—

"No," I decide, and something _Inside _snaps into place. "No, I don't. But that's what's _supposed _to happen." Saying it out loud—saying it to _him_—I feel like I'm speaking through a ghost. A ghost who very suddenly doesn't _matter _as much as she once did.

_Now what?_

"Forgetting for the moment that I am as likely to lie with Hawke as with a houseplant," Fenris drawls, with only a hint of acid, "you're—you're bent out of shape because last night I was _your _lover, instead of hers?"

Something isn't right. I stare, dumbstruck, into his hard, stoic expression. His countenance is unyielding and flat as cold marble, except for an elusive, incongruous, and _wildly _inappropriate upward twitch in one corner of his mouth. He's—he's actually _laughing_. Maybe not out loud, but _goddamn _if this smug, beautiful, shirtless creature isn't fucking _laughing_. And why shouldn't he? We've _had _this conversation already. And it's _still _ridiculous.

I am a first-prize, class-A, brilliant _moron_. Seriously. This level of stupidity deserves a fucking statue.

So he's supposed to be Hawke's.

So what?

I flip the pages forward in his sketchbook until I reach the end, and gingerly place it back on the coffee table. "So how do we do this?" I ask, utterly powerless to do anything but _be _with him. "Should I start calling you Leto?" I'd be crazy about him either way, but it seems important to lay down some ground rules.

He tentatively reaches for my hand, and I ignore the way my (_his_) shirt rides up as I close the gap between us, folding contentedly into the safety of an embrace that feels like _home_. "I think 'Fenris' will serve," he assures me, gently stroking my hair out of my face.

I press a silly, relieved grin into his bare chest. _This _is how this morning should have started. No _It was fine_, or _I can't do this_, or _Forgive me_—

"Isn't this my shirt?" Fenris asks curiously as his hands begin to roam over (_and under_) the soft black fabric.

I hum in the affirmative, struck by a frankly _wicked _impulse. I push myself off him, and with one surprisingly fluid, graceful motion, the shirt in question is dangling from my hand instead of—well, _on_. I feel my mouth twitch in an unabashedly triumphant smirk as he tenses underneath me. "Here," I offer boldly. "I'm done with it."


	47. This is why I can't have nice things

**AN: **You all probably know what I'm going to say, but I'm going to say it anyway. I am so, SO sorry this update took so long. Each of you deserves my personal, heartfelt thanks for being patient, for sticking around despite the infrequent updates. The worst part is I can't even promise it'll get much better, at least not for the immediate future. Moving is still in the works; t-minus two and a half weeks, and I'll be propping my feet up in New Place! I can promise to work on this every spare minute I get, so hopefully the next update will be from my new HQ!

Plot-Bronco isn't done with me yet, guys; we're still in the saddle and galloping at breakneck pace to God-only-knows-where. Thank you all again for bearing with me, for sticking around, for the encouraging words and good karma. I feel really blessed to be part of your community. :D

* * *

><p>There is a difference, I find, between putting on clothes and getting dressed. Getting dressed is what you do when you anticipate leaving the house (<em>or apartment<em>) for any appreciable length of time—like to go grocery shopping, or on a date, or to the _moon_, for example. Putting on clothes, on the other hand, is what you do to just not be naked anymore. You can just put on clothes when you need to take the dog out, or make coffee—or when your elven lover very baldly states that there are limits to even his endurance.

Watching his jeans ride low on his hips as he staggers—I'm not even kidding—into the kitchen to make coffee, I can admit he may have a point.

I wait until I'm out of sight of the front door with Scooter before bursting into a spastic happy dance. She ignores the erratic tugs on her leash as I do the running man down our usual path. "I slept with Feenn-ris," I sing to myself. "And he's still wiii-th me! I slept with Feeeenn-ris—" I cut myself off on a cough as Scooter does something unprintable and gives me a look that says _You gonna clean that up or what? _

She clearly has no romance in her soul. _Clearly_.

I find Fenris still in the kitchen when my emotionally-stunted canine and I slip back through the door. Steam curls toward the ceiling from the coffee mug he holds by the handle. A persistent, faraway smile shimmers on and off his features as he gazes into his coffee; I'd be willing to bet he hasn't actually had any yet. I hoist myself onto my favorite spot on the countertop, careful not to bump the cup he's prepared for me. "Tell me about them," I offer softly under the blanket of silence.

He glances at me in mild surprise—did he not even realize I'd been staring at him? "My memories?" The faraway smile turns sad, then bitter as his mouth twists in distaste. "You saw for yourself—I remember being a slave, and very little else."

"I meant your _parents_," I retort in gentle reproach. "Tell me about your _parents_."

"I remember their faces," he argues half-heartedly. "It is a child's memory, no more."

I think of the couple he's immortalized, of the wonder and fear stamped on his familiar features as he _remembered_, remembered so much more than just their faces. His eyes follow me as I retrieve his sketchbook from the coffee table and flip through the pages until I find the sketch. "Tell me about _them_," I urge him emphatically, finger hovering over his father's achingly familiar smirk and his mother's shining eyes.

Fenris's expression freezes in an agony of poignant yearning as he holds his sketchbook in trembling hands. Wordlessly he brushes his fingers over his parents' graphite faces, looking so _lost _that I fear I may have overstepped my bounds, lover or not. This moment—_this _moment doesn't belong to me. _Fenris _doesn't belong to me—right now, he's _theirs_. Maybe that should bother me; after all, it wasn't _so _long ago that I was convinced he _belonged _to someone else entirely. But I'm not bothered. New as I am at _this—_loving him, _being _with him, _family _is one of the few things I understand completely.

"He was tall, for an elf," Fenris muses quietly. "Mother always looked so small next to him." He rests the sketchbook on the counter; I barely contain my sigh of gratitude and relief as he slowly pulls me into him, turning me around until my back is pressed to his chest—spooning, standing up. "He called her _flamma_."

The tip of my nose grazes his jawline as I roll my head against his shoulder. "You called me that last night," I tentatively interrupt. "What does itmean?"

He doesn't answer; only touches a light, tender kiss to my temple and shifts me in his arms so my forehead rests against his heartbeat. His palms settle naturally on the flare of my hips, thumbs absently stroking the skin between the hem of my shirt and the waistband of my jeans (_just keep touching me, babe_). Coffee is forgotten as the chrysalis of tender silence solidifies around us. Time ceases to matter; its passage goes unmarked, and might not exist at all, for all we care. _This _matters. _This _is important.

"What of you?" Fenris's voice slides under my drifting consciousness and tugs me back to planet Earth as if I were a straying kite. He peers expectantly into my face; I have the feeling I've just caught the end of a conversation that didn't actually includeme. "Last night," he explains haltingly at my perplexed frown. "I didn't ask—did I touch anything you—you didn't want touched?"

I spare a moment to wonder, briefly, just how many times it's even _possible _to fall in love with the same person over and over again. He doesn't hesitate to return the kiss I press on him in reassurance. "Honey, you did _just fine_." I wouldn't be surprised if all the combined understatements started forming a colony under the floorboards.

He collects our mugs and kisses me again while the microwave whirs, tapered ears flushing a happy pink. "I can do better than that, I think," he hums. He breaks away before I can fully puzzle out the logistics of doing exactly _that_ in my cramped kitchen; he only folds my hands between his, expression alight with an anxious, tender intensity I strangely recognize. "I must do this first." He brushes his thumbs across the backs of my fingers—it _feels _like he's stalling for time even though I know that's _crazy_—

"Erin—_dulca_—would you care to accompany me on a date this evening?"

_Whoa. Stop the presses._ I didn't even know he knew what a date _was_. Who told him what a date was? And can I send them flowers?

I somehow manage to squeak some form of affirmative answer. I must have, because he smiles my favorite smile and hands me my reheated mug of coffee. Bacon begins to sizzle in the skillet he retrieves from the cabinet, and for all intents and purposes it's a normal morning at Chateau Crazy. Except for this stupid grin I can't seem to keep off my face, or this new, hot glow of anticipation and giddy anxiety.

I have a _date_. With _Fenris_.

The day passes in alternating bursts and lazy drifts of time. I learn the _language _of him—a new, wordless tongue of touch and sound and spring-bright glances over the rim of his coffee mug. It feels like the world forgets us, as we burst and drift together and the afternoon shadows inch across the walls in no great hurry. And somewhere, lost in that soft stillness, I tell him I love him. I say it with lips and hands and the way I try to press every fiber of my _being _into him. But I never _say _a word. Some things are still just too big to share with mere _words_.

Evening deepens seamlessly into night, somehow without my noticing. Fenris responds to some signal he and the clock have evidently agreed upon, and begins to dress, to prepare. I follow his lead—the only hint he provides as to what he's actually _planning _is to dress warmly. I wriggle into my favorite Levis—the ones that make me look like I have hips—and the low-cut, long-sleeved shirt and sweater Helena bullied me into during her visit. He waits patiently while I lock the door behind us and admonish Scooter to be a good dog. He takes my hand, and pulls me into the mild winter night. I match my stride to his almost unconsciously, and I have never been more willing to be utterly clueless.

"Tell me something I don't know about you," Fenris breaks the easy silence.

"You _live_ with me," I deflect instinctively. "I'm not exactly a big mystery."

"You are, in fact," he argues playfully. "This, for instance." He pauses for a moment, brushing his thumb over a thin white line of scar tissue on the back of my hand. "What happened here?"

A huff of laughter escapes me. "Shadow—Mom's dog—dragged me into a duck pond and I cut myself on a sharp rock. This one, too." I briefly relinquish my grip to point out a matching line on my other hand. "I was ten, before you ask. Shadow was just a puppy but she was still stronger than I was."

He halts on the sidewalk and presses his lips to the old wounds, long-healed and nothing more than a story to laugh over. "And these?" he prompts curiously, touching his fingertip to a small constellation of circular marks scattered across the inside of my wrist, each about the size of a pinhead.

"Hot honey," I admit ruefully. "I microwaved it to break up the crystallization and—_splash._"

"And when was this?"

"About a week before I met you." It doesn't surprise me at all (_well, maybe a little_) when he kisses away these little hurts too.

He keeps me talking while we walk—I tell him about having the chicken pox, about common colds and chicken noodle soup and how Emmett would always put on puppet shows for Helena and me (_he NEVER got sick, the jerk_). I even tell him about my secret childhood dream of becoming a ballerina, before I broke my leg and decided leaping and twirling were best left to the professionals. I tell him about the time Charlie tried to cure me of my paralyzing fear of falling by taking me rock climbing; Fenris curls his lip and snorts a scornful Tevinter epithet I've never heard before. He spins me into a kiss, strangely possessive in spite of its gentleness. He breaks away and strokes his thumbs over my cheekbones, looking as fuzzy and tender as I feel. "He was a fool," he states with authority. "And I am glad of it. We're here," he adds lightly before I can decipher _that _in its entirety.

Sidewalk Stop by night is a merry vision, busy and welcoming. Garlands of white, flame-shaped lights wrap around the porch's wooden railings, shimmering through the bottles of liquor behind the bar and casting a cheerful glow over the patrons. A low stage on the second level is cluttered with instruments and amplifiers, shapes and shadows brought into sharp-edged relief by a bright light, tinged with red. Fenris winds a path through the crowd to my favorite corner table and melts back into the crush of people as soon as I'm settled.

The dull roar of different conversations too numerous to count presses against me, underscored by an occasional, tuneless thrum and twang from the stage as the band goes through its sound check. I don't recognize the name emblazoned on the many notecard-sized flyers scattered like fallen leaves throughout the bar, but with a name like _Fiddle 'n' Dance_ I can't imagine I _won't _enjoy them. I bounce my leg against the floor, happily impatient and left with nothing but confused snatches of my own thoughts.

Fenris returns, interrupting my mental tail-chasing with a glass of deep red wine that seems to glitter like rubies. He slides naturally into the seat beside me and touches his glass to mine with a bell-like _ting_. "This is _close_," he hums approvingly after his first taste. His eyelids flutter shut; he doesn't just drink the swirl of liquid from his glass—he _experiences _it. I _feel _him breathe it in, can sense the tendrils of memory reach past the mundane, busy surroundings and into realms unknown to me.

I sip at mine, trying to wrap my mouth around the flavors he once described. I taste warmth, and the smoky richness all reds seem to carry (_to me, at least_). And underneath is a depth, a hidden sweetness that lingers on the tongue. "What's missing?" I ask softly, fearful of disturbing his hard-won moment of recollection.

He tips his glass toward his face, inhaling thoughtfully before another sip passes his lips. "I am not sure," he answers slowly. "A fruit, or perhaps a sweet herb of some kind. For all I know it only grows in the Imperium." He heaves a sigh, and seems to come back to himself, to _here_. "Bah," he rumbles dismissively. "It's close enough."

The first strains of a reel scream musically from a fiddler's strings, and the roar of applause rises from every corner like so many flapping wings. Wood scrapes on wood as tables and chairs are hastily pushed out of the way to create an impromptu dance floor. Fenris drains what's left in his glass and stands, invitation sparking plainly in the steady, bright gaze. "I believe you owe me a dance, _dulca_," he murmurs, one hand suspended palm-up in the small space between us.

_He fights. He cleans. He reads. He's a CHAMP in bed. He knows what a date is. AND he can dance? _"Is there _anything _you don't know how to do?" I demand, feeling vexed and strangely vulnerable in the shadow of his—_capable-ness_. That doesn't stop me from slipping my hand into his, or from letting him tug me toward the second level.

"Drive," he quips instantly, spinning me into the center of the floor. I helplessly follow the leading pressure of his hand, chastely curled against the curve of my waist. The music worms its way beyond mere hearing as we whirl in tight circles, mindful of the other couples, and takes root in a deeper place of true _listening_. Maybe that's all dancing really is—deep, true listening. A listening that engages _all _the senses, not just hearing. Or maybe it's one more way for new lovers to touch and move and grin idiotically at each other.

Either way—I'm _dancing_. With _Fenris_. I've had a glass of red wine, deep and sweet and as close to Aggregio Pavali as we're likely to get, and now _I'm dancing with Fenris_.

Best. First. Date. _Ever. _

We talk. We laugh. We indulge in another glass apiece of the almost-Aggregio. And between the talking, laughing, and indulging, we dance. This must be what it feels like, to be swept off your feet (_even though I'm PRETTY sure both of mine are firmly planted on the ground_). I lose myself in a blur of wine and time, in the lazy whirlwind of motion as Fenris guides me around the dance floor. I have no idea why he thought I needed to dress warmly; between the exercise, the alcohol, and just being _near _him, I feel practically aglow with heat. I tie my sweater around my waist, and feel like a _goddess _for the half-heartbeat Fenris simply _stares _at me in wonder (_I guess he's forgotten he's seen me naked_).

But all enchantments come to a close eventually—I feel as though all I did was _blink_, and the bartender announces last call while the band packs away its instruments and thanks us all for being such a great crowd. Fenris's arm settles naturally against the small of my back as we slip through the departing throng, and I cleave happily to the me-shaped space between his shoulder and hip. The sounds of night create their own brand of silence. The air is too chilled for the crickets and frogs, but muted birdsong drifts through the canopy of tree boughs above us as we wind a path homeward. We've _transcended _beyond words, and can speak as clearly with touch and proximity as with any one of a thousand spoken first-date platitudes that feel hollow after everything we've been through.

Even so, some words still have a place. Fenris inhales deeply in a beat between thoughts and murmurs my name as if asking a question. We pause under the lamps in the courtyard, mere feet from home, and he waits for my undivided attention before he softly declares, "I would be honored to wear your favor, _dulca_, if you would give it."

Muddled by wine and the everlasting high of _being _with him all day, it takes me a moment to even put together what's he's course I wore my high school boyfriend's ring on a chain during our doomed six-month romance (_and when I say doomed I mean we cordially parted ways after graduation_), but I never thought of it as a _favor_. I admit there is something undeniably appealing in such an open declaration of—of _feeling_. But no one's ever _asked _me for one before. I don't even know what to _give _him, what piece of my _self _I could possibly offer that he doesn't already have. I gape helplessly, moved and baffled, and hand over the only thing I can think of. I flick the catch on my necklace, and the chain springs apart under my fingers. "Is this okay?" I ask uncertainly, as the intricately-worked pendant swings gently in the small space between us. _Please let it be okay—_

Hesitantly he touches one finger to the silver knots, sending it spinning first one way, and then the other. He opens his mouth, but no sound escapes save a short hitch of breath as he follows the length of the chain. I steel myself against disappointment as he tries again. "Erin—" He gasps, and his features suddenly harden into an expressionless, stoic mask. His fingers tighten into a fist around the chain, and he shoves the necklace into his pocket almost absently. A desperate pang of loss strikes like a bell against the inside of my sternum, swiftly followed by unease. He isn't _my _Fenris anymore—not _just _my Fenris, anyway. Now I've gone and done it. I've managed to ruin _the _most perfect evening of my life by offering him a _chain _and calling it a _favor_. I take a hasty step toward home; maybe there'll be a chance to start this conversation over hiding behind the door. "Don't worry about it," I stammer, one hand on the doorknob. "I'll find something else inside."

"Erin, wait—_don't—_"

I hear him a fraction of a second too late; by the time he starts his panicked rush up the porch steps, the front door has already swung open, and I've stumbled into the middle of a hot, bloody chaos of ringing steel, raised voices, and an odd, rushing sensation in my ears as if they're trying to pop.

Seeing and believing are experiencing some difficulty in communication as I gape at the scene in frank, fearful astonishment. The second hand on my wristwatch slows to a painful grind I can _feel _inside my skin, counting down to inevitable, ugly disaster.

_Tick_. Scooter darts out from her refuge under the coffee table, tail tucked between her legs and whimpering.

_Tick_. I half-turn my head toward the sound of Fenris's nimble ascent behind me. He checks his frantic charge too late; the icy-mint solidity of his activated markings feels like plunging through a thin layer of frozen mouthwash.

_Tick_. I bounce lightly away from him (_FUCK Newton!_) just as Scooter's slinking bulk draws level with the backs of my knees.

The rest is like a sped-up film of a mighty tree, felled and toppling. Time resumes it's normal, unkind pace. I land badly; my elbow buckles under my weight, and I pin my own wrist beneath me. Scooter yelps, more from fright and surprise than pain (_I hope—a trip to the vet is SO not on my radar right now_). And a pair of piercing, cloudless-sky-blue eyes set in a face so familiar I could scream with the ridiculous impossibility of it all blink as my prone, sprawling form lands squarely between _her_, and an eight-foot-tall, horned assailant I'm almost _one hundred percent positive _was hewn from a stone wall. The gray-skinned, bare-chested _behemoth _aims the lethal tip of his spear at my midriff, expression frozen in a savage rictus of battle frenzy.

_We who are about to die—_

"_Venhedis_, woman—_move!_" Fenris's voice shouts. The about-to-pop feeling in my ears has started to _hurt_; I almost can't hear him. A silver-white blur of motion crosses the periphery of my vision. Strong fingers close around my ankles and yank. The spear's point buries itself into and _through_ the floor without leaving a mark. I scramble to my feet, sobbing for breath and clawing for sanity as all around me, familiar strangers duck and weave through the flow of the skirmish—_in my goddamn living room_. I wish with all my heart I could say I do something _constructive _with my voice, once I finally find it, but in truth all I can manage is a gibbering stream of hysterical profanity. I've moved beyond a tolerable level of _bizarre_—the _normal _bizarre, and into a horrific wonderland where what is _real _and what is _possible _collide and leave jagged, empty places in the wake of their dismantling. _This isn't happening—this CAN'T be happening—oh God this is really happening—_

And yet—

The immediate danger of being _fucking skewered _passed, I watch as closely as I dare. I _hear _several familiar voices (_that belong to people I've never fucking MET, in case that isn't clear_), but I only _see _the blue-eyed woman I just _can't bear _to actually _name_, because it's—_she's _impossible. And then even she flits out of view, but her voice remains, calling commands to followers unseen. "They're not actually here," I hiccup as realization dawns. Bold words, considering barely half a beat later I instinctively duck to avoid the swing of a blade borne by a _different _gray-skinned, bare-chested horned _fucking GIANT_. I press my palms over my ears, crouching on the floor as the pressure inside builds to an excruciating, tinny ringing. I struggle back to my feet, shamed into bravery. "They're not, right?" I grind out from between clenched teeth.

Fenris protectively straddles the space around me. His expression darkens to an obsidian scowl of _readiness_; his eyes dart around the room, and I can _see _him process each and every factor that form the whole of this—_this is happening in my living room, for Christ's sake! _

He doesn't get a chance to answer. A—a _Tal-Vashoth _spearman (_somehow, that sounds less ridiculous to say than—than __**her **__name_) drifts into—into _whatever_. The kossith's chiseled features twist into an ugly grin, and he bears down hard. Fenris shoves me _away_ with all his strength, and I bounce painfully against the wall. The pressure in my ears is _screaming; _I regain my footing just in time to see the spear point bury itself in Fenris's chest.

I fell off my grandfather's roof when I was eight, and you know what I remember _most _clearly? Not the sound of my bone snapping in two, or the awful surprise of finding myself _not _on the roof anymore. No. I remember the _fear_, the _helplessness_, between the awful surprise and the snap of bone, and _knowing, _even as a child, that no desperate, last-possible-second prayer could stop what was about to come next. That was when I cried.

That's how it feels now. That's when I cry, watching the pitiless tip of _reality _sink into my lover and out again—

—and keep going, as the spearman stumbles against the resistance of _nothing_, nothing but _space_. A scream of pure fury rips from my throat, and I grab the nearest weapon to hand, and fling it into—into _there_.

I _feel _a thunderous _pop_. The squeezing pressure doesn't merely dissipate; it is _torn _from me, leaving me curiously empty for the blessed moment before the aftershock of _pain _drives away the relief. I wait to hear the satisfying shatter of ceramic on dry wall, but it never comes. The kossith drops like a stone; at first I honestly believe my puny, ineffectual puny might have actually _done _something. But then something whistles past my head and embeds itself in my wall with a solid-sounding _thunk_. The kossith jerks alarmingly, assailed by invisible forces that leave harsh, ugly scorch marks on the silver-gray flesh.

_She _appears again, glaring coldly at the ruined corpse (_I have a corpse in my living room oh God oh God oh God oh God_—). Pressure begins to build in my ears again. She looks up—looks _at _me—can _see _me. Her black hair stirs in a wind I can't feel; she's bleeding from a small cut on her cheek (_oh Jesus was that my fault?_) Almost as one, our gazes return to the unbroken coffee mug resting on its side between our feet. She reaches for it at the same time I do; my fingers pass through flesh and ceramic and close only on empty air. But she picks it up—in _her _hand, _my _mug is solid, and real, and not _here _anymore. Other faces—other familiar strangers crowd at her back, but she doesn't seem to notice them (_though they all do a double take when THEY notice ME_). Her eyes have not left mine.

I'm probably a Bad Person for feeling _relieved _that she looks as scared and troubled as I know I am. She opens her mouth—to speak, to cast a spell, to whistle Dixie, for all I know—but with another terrible _pop _in my ears, she's gone, and my favorite mug with her.

Fenris sways where he stands, eyes far away and a faint, perplexed crease between his eyebrows. I might have simply asked a particularly difficult riddle, for all the attention he pays to the gravity of the fact he _should be fucking dead. _

My hands shake as I push his shirt upward, looking for the wound I _know _should be there, but blessedly _isn't_. He starts violently as I throw my arms around his waist, but settles as he recalls himself. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my cheek to his chest; the living, vital beat feels like the answer to a prayer. _He's fine_. There is absolutely _no reason _to revisit my moment of cold, sick helplessness as I'd watched the spear point thrust home. _He's fine—we're BOTH fine. _There is _no need _at _all _for this—this _sweep _of relief so profound it makes me want to—_oh no—_

Fenris pulls away and frantically pats me up and down. "_Venhedis—_you're hurt—"

I shake my head, unconvincingly. "I'm okay," I try to reassure him. "Really. It's just—"

"What?"

I start to tremble with the effort of holding myself together. "I watched you _die_," I try to explain. "Or what _should _have been you dying, if it wasn't for _whatever _the _fuck _is going on! He sp-speared you through your _goddamn _chest!" The tears begin to flow in earnest now, great gasping sobs drawn out of me like poison. So much for keeping it together. "You _scared _me_, _you stupid, stubborn, heroic fucking _jackass_—"

He scoops me off the floor and cradles me firmly against his chest, effectively cutting off any further clumsy hysterics. He effortlessly ferries me into the bathroom, where water begins to drum into the tub as he peels my sweat-dampened clothes from my skin. Only when his fingers slip as he fumbles with the clasp of my bra do I realize he's shaking too. I barely pause to tug his shirt over his head, or to scrabble at the front of his jeans, before dragging him with me into the tiny haven behind the shower curtain.

Our embrace is a frantic, desperate thing—a tangle of limbs under a spray of water so hot it nearly boils as it pools at our feet. I press my palms against his stomach, staunching the phantom flow of blood I _know _should be pouring out of him, but _isn't_. He crushes his mouth to mine, fingertips caressing the harsh, drumming beat of my pulse at my neck. We brace ourselves against the shower wall, and drag the cold shock of fear out of each other with urgent, demanding kisses and one continuous point of contact that sighs and shivers and _fights _to get _closer_, as close as we can get. _Show me_, my kiss commands. _Show me you're alive_.

_You first_, is his unspoken reply.

I cry out once in a sobbing ecstasy of relief, shuddering around him as the water cools to lukewarm. Fenris spins the water off and pulls one of the oversized bath sheets from the towel rack, all without pulling too far away. "_Festis bei umo canavarum,_" he sighs heavily, and wraps the clean terrycloth around both of us.

"I really, _really _hope not," I joke in a small voice. It's my turn to pull away first; the difference in our heights makes it awkward and precarious to stay _together _for too long. But I readjust, fitting myself against him as if we'd been _made _for it. Seconds and minutes click steadily past; it feels _safe _in here, with the world (_worlds?_) locked away on the other side of the door. _This _is the only world _I _want a part of.

"We can't continue like this forever," Fenris rumbles gently into the steam-laden silence.

"Says who?" I mutter sullenly into his skin, even though I know he's right. I slump against him in surrender. "Stay with me tonight," I whisper. "We'll figure out the rest in the morning."

I feel him smile softly into my damp hair as he sweeps me off my feet (_literally, this time_) and lays me atop my mattress. I bury my face in the warm, musky hollow between his neck and shoulder, half-asleep before he even turns off the light. "We always do," he murmurs warmly, and settles easily into the space beside me.

_Always. _I could get used to _always._


	48. I DO NOT BROOD

**AN: **Well, I have somewhere to sit, somewhere to sleep, and I can connect to the Internet. I guess that means I officially live at RKat HQ 2.0!

Psst...BIOWARE owns Fenris...

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><p>I wake to birdsong, and am at once overcome by a unique joy, riotous and deafening even in its quiet, at the weight of a warm, lean body beside mine. Fenris's arm is draped comfortably over my hips; the steady rhythm of his breathing tickles the hairs scattered across my nape. I sigh contentedly and wedge myself deeper into the sideways cradle of his thighs—<em>and a good morning to you too. <em>We kind of got off on the wrong morning-after foot yesterday; this is a promising start, though—

_The very fabric of reality is slowly tearing itself apart in your living room. _

Hmph. Killjoy.

Slipping out from under his arm feels like a feat of acrobatics straight out of Barnum and Bailey's (_shock of shocks, the paranoid insomniac fugitive is a light sleeper_), but he only grumbles dreamily and hugs my pillow to his chest—_oh God he's ADORABLE_—as I shimmy into pajama pants and a top. Scooter pads after me almost silently, tail swishing back and forth in anticipation of all the adventures to be found in the living room. _He's adorable, and I'm screwed_.

I don't want to wake him; grinding coffee can wait a little while. I meditatively rock back and forth on my feet, heel-toe, toe-heel, unable to tear my eyes from the short length of dark wood embedded in my wall. Who needs coffee when you've got _that _to wake you up? I climb onto the couch cushions and touch my fingertip to the fletched end. It bends, and bounces back with a muffled _boing_ like a particularly lethal doorstop. It's just a project, like every paper and project I hand in for a grade and a gold star (_and eventually, a Master's degree_). I just have no idea how to _start_.

And there's (_probably_) no way in hell I'm getting my security deposit back.

I glance at the spot of floor where the impossible truth had waltzed in and out. Whatever—whatever _that _is, its state is progressing. Or maybe regressing. I grab a pencil and tap the eraser end against my palm, hoping the bouncy sting will instigate a moment of _eureka_. Fenris, real as the air in my lungs and currently sleeping naked in my bed (_loversloverslovers_). Merrill, flickering like a glitch in a digital picture and perhaps not actually here at all. Anders—I stubbornly swallow against a lingering shudder of fear at the memory—Anders, furiously present, and yet _not_. And then—Last Night (_thinking of it in capitals helps encompass all the…all the Last Night_). There's a common thread connecting _all _of this.

I just have to _find _it.

"He'll come for me."

I turn sharply toward the sound of Fenris's voice. He straddles the threshold of the bedroom doorway, leaning heavily against the frame. He doesn't move a muscle as I step gingerly off the couch; light from the east-facing window throws his face half into unrelenting shadow, and leaves me feeling as though I know him not at all. "Danarius," he clarifies. "He'll come."

I slip past him and rummage through my desk drawer until I find a roll of masking tape. "Is he coming for you _today_?" I ask with forced, deceptive calm. "Or do we have a little while?"

"How should I know?" he snaps. "He'll come. And when he does—"

"He has to get through Kirkwall first," I point out tranquilly. I tear off a length of tape and stick it to the living room floor. "Which means he has to get through _them_. And then, assuming he survives that encounter—which, by the way, I _would not _bet on—he has to find the _whatever-thing _on _that _side, _and _figure out how it works."

"Erin, he's a _magister_—"

"I'm not afraid of him—"

"Are you _serious_? He's a magister," he repeats angrily. "A _magister_. Do you know—do you even have the _smallest _idea what that _means_?"

"Let me spell it out for you," I snarl abruptly, feeling rigid with temper. "I. Don't. _Care._" I finish my tape square on the floor and stand, squaring my shoulders against his furious confusion. "Yeah okay, he's a _magister _in Tevinter. In Kirkwall, he's still a mage. But _here_, on _my _turf, in _my _town, under _my _roof?" I don't really remember ending up nose-to-nose with him, but I feel slightly cross-eyed with the effort of glaring at him from such close proximity as I hiss my conclusion. "Here, he's _nothing_."

I stab my finger at the tape square I've arranged on the floor. And "if—_if, _not when, you psychotic pessimist—he gets through _that_, I have a baseball bat waiting for him with his name on it." I cross my arms over my chest. I'm telling the truth—I'm _not _afraid. Not of Danarius, anyway. Slave-owner. Torturer. Sadist. _Magister_. No. He doesn't scare me.

He makes me _angry_.

"You don't understand," Fenris insists with a growl, and spins angrily away from me. "You would _never _understand!"

"So explain it to me." I dog his steps as he retreats into the kitchen. "Why are you still afraid of him?"

"Because of _you_!" he shouts, whirling. His fists clench around my forearms and my back presses flat against the refrigerator as his hot, glass-green gaze darts back and forth across my face. "He'll come. He'll see—_this_. What is between us. And when he does—_flamma_,he'll make me _kill_ you. Like Seheron. Like the Fog Warriors." The rage seems to drain out of him like lukewarm bathwater. He lets go of me and braces his elbows against the countertop. "He will break me."

My anger follows his, flying out of me and leaving me exhausted. I could kick myself—I should have known it would come back to this at some point. _Oh babe—I'm so sorry._ "Well," I say quietly, hoisting myself onto the counter beside him. "Lucky for me, I know something he doesn't."

He glares at me sidelong, feral and wary. "What?"

I reach for his hand, and he lets me uncurl him, lets me press his hand to my neck—to my heartbeat. "I know _you_," I whisper into his lyrium-etched palm.

He wavers, an anguish of uncertainty battling behind his eyes. "If he finds you—"

"It won't go well for him," I interrupt with certainty that borders on smugness.

"How can you know that?"

"Read a comic book sometime—it _never _ends well for the guy who goes after the girl." I leave out the fact that frequently it never really goes well for the girl, either. I kiss his palm, and then his lips, pressed into a hard line that gradually softens under the brush of my mouth. "Don't borrow trouble," I advise him, with a small a grin that means I know exactly how ridiculous that sounds coming from me. "We have enough."

Fenris huffs mirthlessly, and touches a kiss to my forehead. "So what now?" he sighs.

"I was thinking breakfast." I slide off the counter and start mixing flour, milk and eggs together while a skillet heats on the stove. _And there's this thing couples do after their first fight—_

"Why the tape?" he asks curiously, after watching me for a silent moment.

Batter dribbles over the heater coils as I ladle it into the skillet. "It's where she—_Hawke _was standing last night." It's a real effort to say her name, to push the word past tongue and teeth and into the space between us. "And Anders, before he—"

"Lost control and tried to kill you?" he drawls bitingly.

"Yeah, okay, if you're gonna be _tactless _about it. And Merrill, before she nearly bled to death and disappeared." I slide a spatula under the pancake and flip it over with a well-practiced motion. "And sex to donuts that's where you—um—came in."

_In—in through what—?_

"Sex to donuts?" he echoes, sounding intrigued.

"In!" I exclaim excitedly. The pancake will keep for a second or two. I rip one of the _Kirkwall _sheets off the wall and flip it to the blank side, babbling and scribbling. I'm a _genius_. "Seen a revolving door yet? No, probably not—I've never taken you to a bank and they're about the only places that still have them. Two openings—and to get into the building you have to keep turning or you're _stuck_." I finish my sketch (_really, calling it a scribble is _charitable). "Like that, see?"

"Ah—no, not really."

The half-burnt pancake flies through the air as I gesticulate toward the tape square on the floor with the skillet; Scooter snatches it out of the air and wolfs it down happily (_first one's always a bust anyway_). "_That's _our revolving door. And _they_—Hawke, and everyone else—they keep trying to push it open, but they keep getting stuck. You didn't—why didn't you get stuck?" I spoon more batter onto the skillet and watch it bubble. "I'm _glad _you didn't get stuck—"

"As am I—"

"Really?" Predictably, my toes begin to curl. "Um—"

"Here, let me." He flips the pancake over before it burns. "So there's a revolving door in the living room," he prompts me.

"I don't know how it works," I admit in frustration, my temporary high of brilliance dissipating almost immediately. "I don't even _really _know if it's actually _there_."

"Oh, it's there," he assures me darkly. "Is it truly important, to know how it works?"

I give him an arch glance over the rims of my glasses. "I dunno about you, but I am _not _looking forward to the day I come out here to get coffee and find a giant spider munching on the dog." I fish syrup out of the pantry and drizzle a healthy dose onto the hot pancake. "If we figure out how it got all the way open the night you got here, I think—_think _we can figure out how to keep it closed." _And speaking of coffee…_

"Oh, is that all," Fenris scoffs without humor.

"Yeah," I sigh hopelessly. The pie-slice-shaped bite of pancake and syrup turns to tasteless mush on my tongue; I don't think I'm hungry anymore. I leave the coffee maker gurgling dutifully into a silence weighted down with questions (_questions, questions, always questions!_), and sink onto the couch.

The frame bends and squeaks as Fenris claims a seat beside me. "We're in over our heads, aren't we," he states with a stoicism I actually find rather comforting at the moment.

"We're _fucked_, is what we are," I correct him bleakly. The silence spreads like an ink stain, a thing alive—an intrusive and malevolent third wheel. I know this feeling. My childhood was one long, sleepless night spent in fearful vigilance, watching the dark, empty spaces without blinking until I would scream, long and loud, just to hear something besides the rabbit-dread beat of my heart. My parents would inevitably come running, and I would instantly fall asleep between them as soon as they'd tucked me into the sweet safety of their king-sized fortress.

Time and distance have transformed me; my parents' fortress is and always was just a bed. I am a woman grown, and I must find a new way to scream before the watching darkness swallows me whole.

Fenris watches in silence as I lift my violin from its plush case. I brush my thumb across the strings, and feel the raw, black scream quiet before it finds expression. Last night's jagged edges begin to soften, to fade until the images blur into a dim nightmare, fit only for night. Jesus—if that spear had been real, had been _here—_

_It wasn't._

But the next one might be.

My D-string thrums against my fingertips, resonant with need I don't really understand (_but when has THAT ever stopped me?_). "Fenris?"

"Hm?"

_Oh God—am I seriously going to TELL him? _I draw in a deep breath that tastes of varnish and resin. "I know we haven't really known each other long, but—I—" Words and courage fail me (_that didn't take long_); I hide my burning cheeks behind the curved wooden body I cradle against my shoulder. "Whatever happens next, just—don't die, okay?" Notes skip and bounce from coiled steel and horsehair, some Baroque piece that's more math than music. _Why is he just staring at me?_

He slides gracefully around me, somehow leaving me plenty of room for the violin even as he gathers me into his chest and holds me close. The music changes, almost without me noticing; it eases into long, sweet notes played _andante _in an order I only vaguely recognize. Fenris sits, arms wrapped loosely around my waist, and just—_listens_. Through fumbled notes and pieces played flawlessly, through light-hearted airs and unbending constructs of melody, his heartbeat thuds against my back, better than a metronome, as he _absorbs_ me. As I _let _him. How's _that_ for absolutely fucking _terrifying_?

_I am not afraid._

And just like that, everything _Inside _is calm again, and I can stop screaming.

I _feel _my own name whispered against the crown of my head, as if Fenris draws it out of some deep well I have not yet seen. I rest my bow across my lap, and he captures my chin in his fingertips. He gently guides my face toward his, forces my gaze upward in miniscule increments until it meets his with an almost-palpable _click_. "Yes," he declares firmly, and I can see him _mean _it. "Yes, I am glad I did not get stuck in the revolving door."

He wiggles his free hand between us; some jingles, and suddenly my necklace dangles in front of my nose. He holds my gaze, unblinking and serious, as he joins the ends behind his neck. The Celtic knot pendant gleams against his black t-shirt, shining and solemn as a vow. It's the single bravest act I think I've ever seen. He cups my face in his palms, thumbs leaving tingling lyrium imprints on my cheeks. "You are the most important thing ever to happen to me," he confesses quietly. "So don't _you _die, either."

He cradles my head against the pad of his shoulder while I decide whether I'm trying to laugh or cry. Maybe I do a little of both. In either case, his shirt ends up a little damp, I end up a little embarrassed, and we both end up perilously close to a point of no return, to _saying _what (_I think_) we both _know_.

I hope he _knows_. I can't _say _it—not out loud, not with words—and for some weird, _unfathomable _reason, I have this feeling that I might not get the chance.


	49. Tell her that I miss our little talks

**AN: **Well. That took a little longer than I expected it to. But in my defense, real life imitates fiction in that the shit's kinda hit the fan on my end. But now that things have...not exactly calmed down but maybe plateaued on a manageable level of chaos I can get back into the swing of more frequent updates. I hope you guys enjoy this one; you've earned it. Thank you all so, SO much for sticking with me this far. **Taffia, Liso66,** **Nameless-Sinner**, and so many others who deserve shout-outs and fruit baskets. You guys keep reading, I'll keep writing! (And, um, Bioware owns Fenris).

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><p>Funny thing, time.<p>

I want to remember each kiss. I want every touch, every smile, every _second_ to be special. Separate. I subject myself to ludicrous ordeals of memory: what was I wearing, who kissed whom first, did he smile a certain way, which cups were we using—all designed to help me keep the _meaning _in everything. All rather futile, ultimately. Everything blurs together, like the classic watercolor backdrops that get recycled in the classic Disney movies.

It doesn't exactly help that Fenris wears basically the same thing every day.

Old routines are dismantled like a jigsaw puzzle, and we piece together a new one that has room for everything between us. Night and day, a coffeepot that never stays empty for long, morning sex (_mm, morning sex_) and sketches and the beautiful, heartbreaking simplicity of the mattress bending under his weight as he joins me in bed—these are the things I want to keep safe. These are the things that melt gloriously together, to matter how hard I try to keep each and every moment in its own world.

These are the things that, in the end, keep me sane when I feel like I could tear my hair out by the roots just to feel something other than frustration. Quantum physics isn't exactly my area of expertise—

"Goddamn shit ass fucking cock if I see _one more link _to the Star Trek wiki—"

Well. You can imagine how well all my Google searches of "interdimensional wormholes" have panned out.

Fenris glances up from his bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios, the corners of his mouth twitching. He puts down the book in his hand, cover facing up and spine bowing to mark his place. I glare at the title without really seeing it—string theory is not only impenetrable, it's _fucking useless_—as he gets up to make coffee. Again. Like he did after my outburst regarding the _Dr. Who _wiki. And the _Fringe _wiki. And, in a moment of optimistic desperation, the _LOST _wiki (_a certain definition of insanity comes to mind_). Even the coffee maker sounds frustrated.

My forehead thumps satisfyingly as it falls onto a pile of books stacked beside me. If I could just find something, or _anything _that would make this mess even start to make some fucking sense—

I look up sharply as a coffee mug materializes somewhere in the vicinity of my nose. "You don't have to do that, you know," I mutter. "I got this."

"Yes, that's why you've snapped an entire package of pencils in half," he drawls, not unkindly. "Is there anything I might do to help?"

My eyelids flutter shut of their own volition as he begins to gently knead my scalp with his fingertips. If only he could do the same for my brain. Not that I'm complaining, mind. I readily surrender to the reassurance in his touch, to his capable expertise and the steady, barely-there pulse of lyrium I sense on my skin as his hands methodically squeeze away three days of running around in circles from my neck and shoulders. "Know anything about linear regression models?" I mumble jokingly. _Oh baby—right there—_

I must have said that last part out loud; his hands shift with clear intent, and a snarled knot of bunched muscles just melts away from its hiding place under my left shoulder blade. "Ah—no, I'm afraid not," he admits.

It would take a better and more patient tutor than me to catch him up on an entire semester of statistical analysis techniques. And even if I was a statistics geniuswith the patience of a saint, I don't have any _data_. Even the most rudimentary test I could run requires at least _a _number. I can't plug _nothing _into anything I know how to do (_and believe me, I've tried_). These coffee-and-scalp-massages-that-occasionally-turn-into-sex breaks are _fantastic. _But I wouldn't say no to a wandering epiphany, should one be in the neighborhood.

I glance at the note-wall. We've upgraded from the tattered, much-abused sheets of paper to lightweight panels of dry-erase poster board. It makes for significantly fewer trees massacred in the name of crumpled balls of paper, but now I'm huffing a rainbow of marker fumes as I draw the exact same _nothing _that refuses to bend to any and all predictive models no matter how I try to spin it—ugh. So far, I haven't found any meaningful link in the scant amount of information we've collected. All I know is something happens _there_, Fenris reacts _here_, and statistically speaking, I have a fifty-fifty shot of ending up unconscious.

The spirit thrills.

Fenris's hands still, fingers curling unobtrusively over my shoulders, and I cover them with mine. It's interesting, how much we both seem to need this. I stroke my thumbs across the web of skin and lyrium, and lean back to rest my head against the comforting solidity of his stomach. I've stopped wearing sweaters at home, preferring instead things like tank tops and thin t-shirts that leave more of me exposed to his touch. To the language in his hands, to a thousand fingertip caresses and the way he crooks his finger under my chin just before he kisses me—

"What are you thinking, _dulca_?"

_Let's forget about all this and go back to bed. _I don't care that we just got _out _of bed an hour ago. Or that we're getting absolutely _nowhere _with the approach we keep trying to use. I—and I seriously doubt I'm alone here—would _so _much rather play between the sheets all day (_again_) than spend one more minute driving myself insane. "I just wish I had something to _measure_," I sigh explosively. His hands slide away from my skin as I push away from the table to stand in the middle of the room. Staring at the note-wall. Waiting for the brainwaves.

Aaaaaaaanny minute now.

"I could feel it," Fenris muses tonelessly. "That night, in my markings. I could feel it was—_open_."

Fear—sick, invasive, cold fear—twists through my insides and flash-freezes my thoughts in useless fragments of memory. The yelling. The clash of steel on steel. Barking and weeping and a pair of impossible blue eyes burning into mine in perfect accord.

The spear.

_This isn't helping_.

You'd think I'd be overit by now, after three days of trying _really _hard not to think about the fact that he should be dead but isn't (_for which I thank my lucky charms, because how much would THAT suck?_). I scrub the soft fibers of the eraser over the multicolored scribbles until I'm left with nothing but a clean, white space. Maybe starting from scratch (_again_) will help—

_You know it won't._

I don't know what else to do—

_Focus. There is fear, and there are facts. _

"Erin? Did you hear me?"

A shock of static jumps over my skin as Fenris slowly spins me into his embrace. I let him overwhelm me; I let his scent fill my senses and I can forget, for as long as he holds me, just how helplessI feel knowing _nothing_. "I am here, _dulca_," he murmurs.

"Like I could forget," I retort, but the jibe lacks any authenticity whatsoever on account of the fact I feel constantly on the brink of having a nervous breakdown. And the fact that I'm gripping his t-shirt so tightly the fabric is threatening a mutinous unraveling.

"You tell me," he chides me softly. "You always get this look on your face when you remember that night." He threads his fingers through my hair and gently tips my head back till I'm left staring into two dark and soft pools of nothing but green. With his free hand, he gently presses against the back of my hand until my palm rests flat against his chest; I can feel the outline of my necklace underneath his shirt. And under that—

_Thump-ump. Thump-ump._

"Alive and well, complete with pulse," Fenris whispers, so sweetly I feel it hollow me out and leave an aching void where something like courage is trying _so damn hard _to take root. I think I may cry. Again.

_No._ There are facts, and there is fear. I'm right: they need to be kept separate. I'm no good to either of us if I'm perpetually too frightened to freaking _think_. I press my eyes shut, and count to three. That's all the time I have left for fear. It gets no more from me.

Today, anyway.

I toss my hair in an effort to shake off the lingering weepy feeling. For now, I need to focus. I need to be _now_, not _then_. I need to step out of memory and fear and into what actually _happened_. I feel a wobbly, watery smile twitch across my face; a fierce, open affection scorches through his trademark tender smirk, and my fear is melted away like an icicle in a bonfire.

_Let's juice this bitch._

I start where we've started over, and over, _and over _again for the last three days: with the graph. I draw my X and Y axes with a bright blue marker, where X is the time elapsed between each event, and Y is the extent to which each event—um—manifests. Four events, four dots, connected with a jagged line to represent the increase in extent. I place a dot where X equals zero and Y equals…_maximum, _I guess, since he is and has been all the way _here _from the start. Merrill's barely a blip on the Y-axis and only a week after Fenris's arrival (_and again, might not have actually happened_). Anders goes somewhere between Fenris and Merrill (_and that I'm pretty sure DID actually happen_). And then, there's That Night (_renamed from Last Night, for all the…That Night_). I plot this point almost on the same Y-axis threshold as the "Fenris" point. My missing coffee mug says the extent is pretty close—

"Measure me."

The cap to the marker slips from my fingertips and bounces across the floor. "Five eight," I blurt stupidly. "Five nine, five ten if you're not hunching your shoulders. What do you mean, measure _you_?"

"You wished for something to measure," he answers, infuriatingly practical. "And we know I can—_sense _it, because of the markings." He rolls his shoulders; it feels _wrong_, somehow, to call it a shrug when he looks as though the effort cost him every ounce of his strength. So Atlas might shrug out from under his particular burden. "So use me."

I stare at him incredulously. Something's _happened _in the last five minutes or so, while I've been scribbling on the white board. Gone is the uninhibited warmth, the easy _openness _I've gotten used to. He's deceptively _still_, meeting my gaze with an impenetrable, glacial calm that I find rather unnerving. He is _the_ last person, in this world or any other, I would have expected to suggest this. I am _floored_, plain and simple, and his expression is giving me absolutely no hints as to what my response is supposed to be. "Let me get this straight," I hiccup. "You received those markings, which you have loathed and reviled, as a prize for winning a gladiatorial thunder dome death orgy, in a twisted blood magic ritual so painful you forgotwho you _were_ for—I don't actually know how long—"

"Eight years, or near enough," Fenris interrupts remotely.

I file that away for later and continue, "And you've been running and hiding for six of those, because your psychotic sadist of a former master—" I spit the hated word "—wants his _investment _back."

"Your grasp of trivia never fails to amaze," he drawls. "What of it?"

I blink hard, fingers waggling vaguely in the direction of the blue-white lines that climb over his skin like ivy. "Your markings are—_were_—why you never had a _life_," I try to explain, hoping I'm not just making things worse. "And you're suggesting _I _use them. Me. _Erin_."

"Yes," he answers, cool and implacable. "I know who you are, _dulca_."

"_Why?_" My voice is steadily tripping up an octave or five. "_How_ can you be okay with this?"

"It is my choice. _Mine_," he snarls, so abruptly fierce that I have to take a deep breath to stay my instinctive retreat. "As it has never been before. I've been used for worse. _Far _worse," he murmurs. A haunted expression darkens his gaze to tornado-sky green, stormy and strange and deadly. "But you know that, don't you."

I shake my head in disbelief, trying to shut out the layers of images that are splitting apart like a mosaic across my mind's eye. For the first time in weeks—_months_, really—I can see his markings as something other than just _part _of him, and I _hate _it. Markings and all, he's just _Fenris_. And the words are out of my mouth before I have a chance to consider if it's really the smartest thing to say. "I can't cheapen you like this, Fenris. I _won't_."

There are eight bones in the human wrist (_I know, because I look it up later_), and I feel _all _of them crunch together under the force of his grip as he arrests my flight and bends me backwards over the kitchen table (_wow, déjà vu_). His expression _scares _me, if I'm being honest: anger and fear paint brittle shellac over a layer of hurt so wild and violent I can _taste _blood and lyrium on my tongue. "We would never be cheap, remember?" he rasps, almost pleadingly.

I freeze, feeling the ground beneath us rumble like a glacier on the verge of majestic, devastating collapse. And I have _no idea _what to say or do to keep us both on the right side of that crucial fault line. The one thing he's ever—_ever_—actually _asked _of me is a choice.

_He's __**made **__his choice. _

"I did say that, didn't I," I whisper raggedly. I squeeze my eyes shut against the sound of ice crumbling, and pick a side. "_Okay._"

Two syllables; that's all. Taken out of context, they're just letters. But Fenris's mouth slides over mine, kissing me like I've just given him something he didn't know he was searching for until he'd gotten it. It's all I need, to know we've ended up on the same side. He trembles, and balls his fists in the hem of my tank top. It's a question; I nod, and he peels it off me with an easy tug. I wrap my legs around his waist, and he carries me back into the bedroom. And I let myself forget, at least for as long as it takes for us to shake apart and come back together in just a slightly different order, that we really don't have time for this.

I'm not going to complain, though.

We're dozing contentedly in the nest of Target's finest Egyptian cotton, soaking up the early afternoon sun for as long as we can before he has to leave for work. He lets me trace patterns and shapes into his skin; he calls out the letters as I spell the words to sweet nothings over his markings. "What does this feel like?" I ask, face-to-face across the pillow.

"Extremely pleasant," he chuckles drowsily. "Or can't you tell?"

I smile fleetingly; I can tell, all right. "But you can feel it."

"Yes, I can feel it," he sighs tolerantly. He watches my finger as it follows a single trail of lyrium from his right collarbone to his left hip. "What are you about?" he hums with a shiver. His skin ripples under my touch, and he shocks me by giggling (_though to be fair, it's probably the manliest giggle I've ever heard_). "That tickles," he protests, trapping my hands in his as he rolls me underneath him. "What are you thinking?"

"Babe, when I know, you'll know," I assure him. He narrows his eyes at the unsatisfactory answer, but my phone rudely interrupts any attempt to interrogate me further with an alarm telling him to leave for work. Reluctantly he rolls off me; it doesn't take long for the questions to rush back into the void left by his absence. His goodbye kiss tells me more than words ever could—it tingles with an anxious urgency and leaves worry dancing on my tongue.

"Stay safe, _flamma,_" he commands in farewell. "I will return." If I didn't know better I'd say he was afraid I won't be here when he gets back. Which, all things considered, is not an entirely irrational concern. I muster a small smile for my part in this ritual goodbye, and follow him to the door for one more kiss.

He's ticklish. The thought helps me smile, as I turn back to the note-wall in fitful contemplation. Brooding, fierce, smiling, flirting Fenris is _ticklish._

From there it's a simple matter of testing. Of finding a way to test…_him_. Swapping TA shifts turns out to be good for something other than a nebulous promise of getting hammered at some point in the future. I call in a few favors, trade a few more, and two days later I've managed to secure a time to have the anthropology department's forensics lab to myself. Fenris trades his own favors (_which basically means he'll babysit the tattoo parlor on what's usually his day off_). The clean, gleaming equipment is strangely reassuring; I may have no idea what _I'm_ doing, but at least I know how everything in here works.

That's not to say it's suddenly _easy _to treat him like a mere test subject, instead of everything he _is _to me. It doesn't mean I'm not constantly comparing myself to the hated, faceless Imperium responsible for his condition. It doesn't mean I'm not instantly stricken with almost crippling guilt when he twitches away from the chill of a stethoscope, or that I'm not perpetually second-guessing his ungrudging submission to my reluctant commands. After an hour of sticking to the basics—blood pressure, heart rate, all the little tests you endure during a typical doctor's exam—I've ascertained that he's an active, healthy adult male in his late twenties who could probably stand to eat something green and leafy once in a while (_but who couldn't these days?_). Fuck-a-doodle-doo.

All this, he endures with an unquestioning patience that makes me want to kick him. I cannot _believe _I let him talk me into this, into treating him with this clinical dispassion that I'm _positive _reminds him of Danarius, of Hadriana, of _everything _he's left behind. I wish he would _glare _at me, or snap, or protest, or do _something _besides just _sit _bare-chested on the exam table while I bustle around him like a particularly shamefaced swarm of bees and _Jesus _I haven't even _started _thinking about his markings yet—

"You are very quiet, _dulca_," Fenris observes, following my hands with his eyes as I unstrap the blood pressure monitor from around his arm. "What troubles you?"

_You. The markings. Danarius. EVERYTHING. _"Aren't I usually quiet?" I try to deflect.

"No," he immediately snorts. "But you are now, and it worries me. What's wrong?"

I'm ashamed to admit it, but the first word out of my mouth is, "Nothing." Holy crap, when did I become such a _girl_? He stares at me in the shocked silence that follows, blinking with excruciating skepticism, and I quickly add, "Nothing you couldn't probably guess."

"I could guess, yes," he agrees easily. "But perhaps you'll surprise me." His gaze continues to stalk me as I pace the room in fitful circles, picking things up and putting them down without using them. "_Dulca, _talk to me. _Please_."

"This whole thing is what's wrong," I burst out petulantly. "I don't know what I'm doing, or what I'm supposed to do, or how I'm supposed to do it. I don't even know how they—you _work_—"

"You could ask," he interjects mildly, looking surprised by my vehemence.

"That's the thing. I don't actually want to know." I pick up a reflex hammer and begin compulsively bouncing the triangular head against the stainless steel exam table. The sound focuses me; it makes it easier to coax the truth out from under the many layers of _weird_. "I—I _care_ about you, Fenris," I say softly (_finally, and out loud too!_), unable to look at anything except the flesh-colored blur of my hand as it continues to drive the small hammer into the table. "I don't want to use you for your markings. I don't want to _be _that."

"_That's _what's bothering you?" His hair swings into his face as he cocks his head to one side. "You think this makes you like them?"

"Not—_exactly._"

"Then _what_, exactly?"

"I'm afraid _you _think so," I whisper, and hit the table so hard the hammer bounces out of my hand to fly across the room. An epitome of grace and poise, I apparently am not.

"Oh, _flamma_—no." My shoulders stiffen in instinctive resistance as he slides off the table and wraps his arms around me. "Look at me," he commands firmly, and captures my chin in a gentle yet compelling grip when I hesitate. "You are _nothing _like them," he says simply, achingly earnest. "You are nothing like anyone I have ever met."

Oh Lord. The waterworks are threatening insurrection again. I slip my arms around his waist and bury my face in his shoulder; he very considerately pretends not to notice my sniffles while I try to get myself under control. That thing I said earlier about not having any more time for fear? Ditto goes for these moments when I'm so in love with him _this _happens (_though if the alternative is NOT loving him, maybe the waterworks aren't so bad_).

_Jesus Christ_. This business of trying to build a relationship in the middle of a crisis is not for sissies.

"So—so how _do _they work?" I finally work up the nerve to ask.

He gently detaches himself from my arms with a shrug, and returns to his perch on the exam table. "They work when I want them to," he replies casually. A small frown creases his brow as he stares at his hands, tracing the lyrium in his palms with his fingers. "And occasionally, even when I don't."

My hand hovers over his skin, waiting for his unambiguous permission before I touch him. I feel the wheels start to turn in the back of my mind, and this time, I let them. "What does it feel like?" I continue haltingly. "When they're—um—while you're using them?

Fenris clasps his hands together, expression blank and empty as paper. "It doesn't feel like anything," he struggles to explain. "I feel—_less_. And more. My heartbeat, the rhythm of my breath. I feel _more _of it." He frowns at the roadmap of lyrium winding over his forearm, and seems to shake out of his dark, contemplative trance. "Does that help at all?" he asks dubiously.

_Maybe_. I hunt down the stethoscope, warming the drum between my hands before I touch it to his skin. His heart sounds impossibly loud (_or maybe that's mine_). I hate to ask; what's more, I hate that I'm going to ask anyway, but—"Will it hurt you, if I touch you while they're—_on_?"

Fenris shakes his head slowly, and the familiar mint-and-static tingle explodes into a jarring, numbing hum under my fingers. Words fail me. Everything gets louder; I can hear the blood flowing him, a muted rushing undertone to the marching beat of his heart. I think I can hear the air molecules in his lungs drifting in the current of his life force. And there—right _there_. Subtle, and yet so inescapably _present _is makes my back teeth ache is a discordant, musical buzz that even _tastes _electric, lyrium blue. It permeates everything he _is _and rattles me apart so thoroughly that I don't notice his pulse has quickened for almost a full minute. "Okay okay stop," I gasp, only remembering to add _please _after the slow-motion, static-shock pain has dissipated.

"_Venhedis faasta vas, _woman," he growls tightly. "You didn't tell me it might hurt _you_."

I impatiently shake away any lingering trace of pins-and-needles. It's been a while since he's been annoyed enough to call me "woman"; I feel inappropriately comforted by the fact that at last, I'm getting _something _from him other than disturbing tranquility. "I'm not hurt," I wave off his concern. "Does it feel the same every time?"

"Why does it matter?" he demands harshly. "I thought we were using _me_, not you."

"Humor me," I beg hurriedly. "Just this once."

"Yes," he snaps grudgingly. "It feels the same every time."

An idea starts to form from the grist under my mental wheel. "Even when it just—happens?" I double-check. "Like that night? And the night with Anders?"

"Yes," he repeats testily. "That's what 'every time' means."

_Consistency. Now we're getting somewhere_. There are probably more precise ways of measuring the increase in his heart rate than staring at my watch and counting, but the ten-year-old in me who still has nightmares about _E.T. _balks in a fundamental, immovable way at the idea of hooking Fenris—_my_ Fenris up to a machine. Besides, every predictive model I know of needs _two _X variables. Even with this new information about his markings—if you can even call it information when it's just an increase in heart rate—I still only have one. I've _missed _something. Understandable, and not really surprising, considering I've been balancing on a cut-glass edge between constant fear and anxiety on one side, and obstinate refusal to be afraid on the other. Still, _missing _something is not a good feeling, accustomed as I am to being the smartest (_and most modest_) person in the room.

_One, two, three—I am not afraid._

It's getting progressively easier to think about that night—That Night—without feeling like the bottom has dropped out of my stomach. I walk myself through the sequence of events; I try to imagine clearly-drawn lines connecting different segments in the confounding tangle of battle sounds and reality cracking apart around me (_one, two three—_). It started in the courtyard; Fenris's taut expression (_that I now know means "Shit's getting real"_) sent me scurrying inside. Next, I opened the door, tripped over Scooter—

_You've missed something_.

Ugh, fine. Courtyard. Fenris. Scurrying. Door. Fenris again. Battle (_no, switch those_). Inside. Ears hurting. Tripped—

Wait. Ears. Pressure. _Air pressure?_

If I wasn't desperate, if I wasn't so hungry for an answer of any kind, I probably wouldn't even consider it. Two quantifiable variables, and the only connection between them is they were both noticeable That Night. Am I seriously going to run these numbers against each other?

_Yes_.

"_Sacra venheda, dulca, _you're _brooding_."

Fenris's incredulous interruption startles a brief, ironic giggle out of me. I bare my teeth at him in a smile full of dark humor. "I have an idea," I explain, wishing like hell it wasn't my _only _idea.

"Four of _my _favorite words," he sighs with relief.

What did we _do _before the Internet? I ask you. Within an hour of diligent, patient Googling, I've found a website that will track, with pinpoint precision, everything you could possibly want to know about any set of GPS coordinates. I can't tell you what a weight is suddenly lifted off my shoulders, now that I know the pollen content of my living room. Fenris watches over my shoulder as I play around with the location settings—partly to ensure it's not just giving me an average for the whole town, and partly for the hell of it. I graph the numbers from the barometric report into an Excel worksheet beside the readings I got from Fenris's heart rate. At a glance my gut tells me I could be on to something (_I disagree, but what do I know?_). The line cuts jagged peaks and valleys across the screen, inversely corresponding almost perfectly with the peaks and valleys in Fenris's heart rate. But I could be wrong. I'm probably wrong. I kind of _want _to be wrong, to be honest.

I grind the numbers through the regression formula, and it cranks out a perfect line, climbing steadily from the bottom left to the right into infinity. I don't _believe _it.

"That line," Fenris hesitantly interjects. "What does it mean?"

I'm right.

At least, my math is right. But—_seriously_? My thesis advisor would have an aneurism if she saw this. I'm using an increase in heart rate as a proxy for an utterly mystical (_nonexistent_) phenomenon, which is in turn a proxy for an entirely _different_ phenomenon. No way in hell it should absolutely _anything _to do with barometric pressure. But the line doesn't lie.

I'm _right_. Somehow I thought it would feel like more of a victory.

"Well," I finally answer slowly, "it means we're probably screwed if the air pressure in the living room ever drops below this threshold." I point at a dip on the barometric graph so deep it's almost crossing zero on the X-axis. "But it's something." I ruthlessly drive my sparse data through Excel's heavy artillery and come up mathematically correct every time. It's something. It's definitely better than the _nothing_ I've been forced to work with up to this moment. "On the plus side," I add, brightening a little now that I'm getting used to this _being right _thing, "I think we can use it to keep track of our—uh—of _it_. Maybe even predict when it's likely to be dangerous."

"You can do that?" he asks, looking torn between skepticism and admiration.

"I guess we'll find out," I grin at him. Modesty prevents me from saying any more. I pack away my things, and let him listen to my heart under the stethoscope when he asks. He smiles as he kisses me, the telltale quickening of my pulse magnified by the drum against my sternum. I make spaghetti from scratch in celebration—I think we've earned it.

After that, checking the weather and the website against each other is just one more fragment that is absorbed into our easy routine. The consistency to which the results produce absolutely nothing remarkable from day to day very gradually begins to eat away at my anxious self-doubt. The line continues to slope up from the left and into the infinite right. The barometric pressure remains steady, neither increasing nor decreasing by any noteworthy amount (_barring the daily fluctuations and I learn to distinguish those with a few quick tests_). And Fenris and I—continue. Gloriously, sweetly, fiercely, tenderly, we continue.

Funny thing, time. It can pass, crawl, drag, fly, and—as anyone knows who's ever had to deal with a deadline—run out. It can rush by so quickly you feel like all you did was blink, and suddenly months have passed.

The one thing it never does—can never do—is stop.


	50. Don't ask what's IN the parting glass

_Dedicated to those who, when all that remains Inside is ash and rubble, will safeguard our broken pieces._

It starts with a phone call—a three a.m. rattle on the first Saturday of spring break that tears through my pleasant dreams of lyrium and lovemaking and rips me back into the waking world. Something cold settles into my gut with mortal finality at the sight of Helena's name on the read-out, which only solidifies into fearful certainty when I notice I've missed calls from Mom and Emmett. Fenris stirs restlessly beside me as I sit up, and swipe shaking fingertips across my screen.

I can't understand a word of what she actually says; I'm still half-asleep and she's sobbing into the other end of the line with all the grace and dignity God gave a three-legged giraffe. For a moment all I can discern is muffled background noise—Mom's and Dad's voices, dogs panting with canine unease—and then Emmett delivers the news with a not-quite-all-there calm that smacks of shock, even to my untrained ear. I listen to myself like I'm no longer really a part of my own body, promising to be—_somewhere_; I can't really register complex things like sentences just now. The line goes dead in my hand, and I am left in a silence that echoes with inevitable loss.

As if from across a very great distance I sense Fenris lift himself onto his elbows, one hand stroking my back in an odd, searching sort of way. "What's wrong, _dulca_?"

I arch into his palm, not certain at all that the familiar tingling warmth is enough to bridge the gaping chasm I fear I might tumble into if I move too suddenly, but still grateful for the attempt. "It's Poppy," I explain hollowly. "He's gone."

Grief makes a blur of the details. Fenris calls Emmett back on my phone to get the whens and wheres, and I drift in his wake as he starts _handling _things. He stops me from walking out the door without any pants. He keeps vigil with me as sleepless hours begin to stack atop each other. He makes a pot of coffee that flows like pitch into two large thermoses (_both for me_); and Scooter follows him to the car without hesitation, as he calls Emmett again from my phone (_really should think about getting him his own_), and then calls Helena to confirm the details. The cold, morbid details.

Only when he slides into the passenger seat like it's part of the plan do I think maybe I should start paying more attention. "You're coming?" I ask numbly, insulating haze interrupted by confusion.

He freezes, one still hand on the door. He peers at me through the silky white screen of hair (_it's gotten so long in the past couple months; wonder if he'd let me cut it?_), elven features caught in a tableau of uncertainty. "Do you wish me to stay, instead?" he asks softly.

Yes. No. I don't know. He's the only reason I know what I'm doing, the only reason I'm even wearing pants. But Poppy isn't—wasn't (_oh Jesus I'm not ready for past tense_) _his_. Why should he care whether one of the most important people in my life suddenly isn't _there _anymore? "The shop," I try to remind him. "Mark—"

"Already knows," he interrupts. "This choice is yours."

Lovers. Family. Funerals. And the casseroles. There are going to be a _lot _of casseroles. I almost burst into tears at the mere thought of enduring all the _casseroles_, tasting of duty and sadness because that's what we _do _in a crisis, without him beside me. "Come," I manage. "If you want."

The _clunk_ of the passenger door slamming shut speaks more eloquently to his choice than words ever could. I turn my key in the ignition and pull out of the complex's parking lot, Scooter gnawing half-heartedly on a rawhide in the back seat.

The sun sinks on the left side of the highway, bathing the white lines and blacktop in an oppressive red glow. It makes a mockery of geography and physics until it feels as though this is all that exists: the night, the road, and the journey. They don't tell you in drivers' ed that the most dangerous thing about highway hypnosis isn't the fatigue, or the tunnel vision (_which at three-thirty in the morning is mostly a non-issue_). It's the _thoughts_.

There is one thought above all others I am desperate to keep from thinking, so I think others. I think about the undergraduate lab reports I have to grade. I think about the conclusion chapter of my thesis, and how I can't quite get the words to come out right. I think about all the work I'm supposed to do over spring break, and have to stop at a gas station to email my thesis advisor that it's just _not gonna happen_. I think about the multiplication table, diverting myself with finding the square root of the miles left to Dallas. I think about charts and graphs and the square of masking tape that's started to curl away from the floor with time and two months' worth of ominous normality.

And of course, I think about Fenris.

I think about two months—_two months_—of his hand in mine. I think about two months of homemade dinners, of coffee and smiles and lazy mornings that have become rare and precious since my final semester started. I think about how he worries when I'm not exactly where I'm supposed to be, at the time I'm supposed to be there. I think about Valentine's Day, the only time he persuaded me to sit for a sketch, draped in the sheet off our bed and my violin balanced on my knee (_which I couldn't resist playing—sitting is BORING_). I think about two months of my own name, whispered against my skin in a shared moment of scorching tenderness. I think about two months of nothing in particular, just one long blur of everyday, aching sweetness.

I think about two months of loving him, all in eloquent silence. And then it's really hard to think about anything beyond the weight of the words that, in two months of being lovers, I still haven't found the nerve to say.

Helena's still at the house when we pull into the driveway. Fenris awkwardly steps out of the way as she throws their arms around me, and pulls me into her grief. I barely feel it, barely notice the ambient canine folderol is far more subdued than usual. I barely notice anything. _Is it over yet?_

"Mama and Emmett've been out there since Thursday," she babbles as she prints our boarding passes. "Sick for so long—we've known for a while he wasn't—just gotta iron out details—Corrine's gonna watch the dogs so that's all settled—we're just waitin' on Laurie and the baby, 'cause Daddy's gonna fly out in the morning and catch a cab straight to the f-funeral—"

My baby sister's lower lip trembles as she runs out of ideas and things to plan; her Campbell blue eyes, already pink and swollen, brim with fresh tears, and I remember, somehow, that she hurts like I do. Her shoulders shake as I wrap my arms around her; I hope that maybe just a little bit is laughter as I whisper into her hair, "Thanks, Dr. Elli."

She pulls her face out of my t-shirt and shoos me into the kitchen, where Fenris presses a fresh mug of coffee into my hand, dark brows drawn tight across his forehead in obvious concern. "You need rest," he murmurs with the certainty of one who speaks from experience.

I can't really argue. I can barely cope with my own personal black hole of loss; even this brief exposure to Helena's has exhausted me beyond measure. "I'll sleep on the plane," I promise him instead. It's the longest sentence I've spoken in over twenty-four hours. Helena leaps up from the computer desk to let Laurie in, and we all cram into her family-sized SUV. I don't even realize the edge of Liam's car seat is digging into my hip until Fenris brushes his fingers over the dent. I buy some Benadryl at the airport for way more than it's worth, and swallow the pink pills dry just before we board. But whether from fatigue, grief, the thrill and terror of flight or a hideous mix of all of the above, all I manage to do is trap myself in nightmares of falling.

The wheels bounce me awake on the tarmac in New Bern as I fall off Poppy's roof one last time, and I haven't had any time to brace myself for _anything_. My lungs don't seem to be working properly; I feel like I'm just a thin layer of skin stretched over a bone frame. The escalator drags us into baggage claim, and we breeze past the carousels without stopping.

Outside, the rising spring moon brushes my skin with light, but not warmth. I shrink against Fenris's chest as Emmett pulls Cherry Pie up to the curb. Laurie embraces her husband, and pain flashes through my brother's expression in the half-instant before he buries his face in her blonde hair, tousled from the flight. I squeeze into the middle of the back seat; even sandwiched between Helena and Fenris, the cold settles in my marrow and spreads outward, until every movement, no matter how small, feels like more effort than it's worth. The wind off the ocean whips my hair across my face in stinging tendrils. As long as I can feel that, I won't worry I've completely frozen.

_Poppy's gone_. The thought swallows me, and I succumb to an eyes-closed trance that is my substitute for sleep. I feel Fenris's surprise ripple through him as my temple lands on the boniest part of his shoulder, but he wraps his hand around mine regardless. I drift gratefully in his scent, in his presence, and will my eyes to stay shut until I sense the crunch of rubber on gravel.

Poppy's seaside haven is shrouded in darkness, save for the porch light (_probably_) Mom left on. Maybe if I don't look directly at it, don't let myself see the empty windows and fading paint, I can pretend—_what, exactly? That this isn't happening? _Denial now will only make tomorrow worse. Still, I don't look up as I ghost through the silence, as I reluctantly let go of Fenris's hand and lay claim to my old room. I slide underneath the faded quilt without undressing, and wait.

One moment, I'm breathing in the scent of clean sheets and wondering why I haven't cried yet; the next, Mom's shaking me awake with a gentleness that devastates me. She hands me a mug of coffee, too sweet and too creamy but _damned _if I'm gonna gripe today, of all days. I leave it on the nightstand, and let her gather me into her lap. She combs her fingers through my tangled hair, rubs my back with well-practiced care. And all too soon, she murmurs, "It's time."

_Is it over yet?_

I suppose you could say it's a beautiful service. Dad bursts onto the scene at the last possible moment before too late, navy blue suit rumpled from the flight and the cab ride; somehow, I don't think that matters to my mother, though. He holds her, holds her up as her composure finally begins to dissolve. The priest makes the usual noise—a life well-lived, a loving family, an end to earthly suffering. The congregation nods, and smiles, and even laughs in some places. They remember my grandfather in words and stories, and some of the crushing sadness around me begins to ebb, like a tide after a violent storm.

I can't feel it. I'm not even here. I'm cast adrift, wallowing anew in numbness that, for the moment, makes me impervious to things like grief and sorrow and memory. Even Fenris—seated on my left with my limp hand enfolded in his because he doesn't know what else to do—even he can't reach me here. I spend close to an hour and a half staring sightlessly at the kneeler. It keeps me from looking at Poppy's portrait, framed in gilt wood and propped on an easel behind the graceful, unassuming curves of a burgundy-glazed urn, resting atop a white, four-legged stand and surrounded by a fragrant invasion of white lilies. As long as I don't look at _that_, I don't have to think about what it all _means_.

Fenris grasps my hand as my family rises from the pew and lead the way to the reception hall. I lose him almost immediately as I'm mobbed by _sympathy_: old ladies in ugly hats who pat my cheeks and leave cloying mists of perfume trailing in their wakes; men and women I vaguely recognize from childhood summers press against me with their grief, telling me how sorry they am for my loss (_as if they know a fucking thing_) and asking how my mama's holdin' up. Conversation flows around me in eddies of questions and answers and how've you been, smelling of death.

And here, at least, death smells like flowers, perfume, and food.

I find a folding chair, out of the way where I hope I will be overlooked by—well, everyone, mostly. Listlessly I pick at my food, piled high on a paper plate. Chicken and rice casserole. Broccoli and cheese casserole. Creamed corn casserole. Potato salad. Biscuits and gravy. All the classic comfort food (_and none of the comfort_). All tasting like duty and sadness, as predicted. I like it this way, really. I like being the unobserved observer, watching the patterns of interaction. Except—I'm supposed to be a _part _of these interactions. I'm supposed to be part of these weeping, smiling, mourning strangers. I'm supposed to be working the room with Helena. I'm supposed to be playing with baby Liam in the corner, with Laurie and an adoring crowd of little old ladies. I'm supposed to be _here. _

But when the priest and a handful of Poppy's closer acquaintances ask Mom and Emmett for permission to gather at Poppy's, I know I can't be _here, _any more than I can be—wherever I've gone. I leave my plate on the seat and slide along the wall like a phantom. No one notices; I don't even cause a ripple as I make my escape out a side door. From the corner of my eye I see a moon-white head bob in and out of sight: Fenris is looking for me. I linger just long enough to let him see me—he worries if I'm not exactly where I'm supposed to be, exactly when I'm supposed to be there—and slip into the hazy afternoon sun.

It's not a long walk to Poppy's, but my feet are still screaming in reproach by the time I reach the house. Dress shoes are not meant for prolonged foot travel—a serious design flaw, if you ask me. The salt breeze stings my eyes, opening a door for the gaping maw of hurt that begins to claw its way outward. I kick off the black pumps and leave them on the vast wooden deck, caressing the smooth, aged wood with the soles of my feet as I slide into the house.

It's so _quiet_. That's the weirdest and saddest part. My whole life, this place shook with noise. It settled into the walls, drifted through the bedrooms until the noise was _part _of the house like a benevolent haunting. But the happy ghosts are silenced now. They might never have been here at all. The thought terrifies me more than I know how to express.

I take the stairs two at a time to the second floor, running my hands along the walls where framed pictures bear silent witness that there were _people _in this house, that there was _life_, once. My knees buckle, and I land heavily on the mattress in Poppy's bedroom. His scent—his _old _scent is still strong here: leather and clean laundry and smoke from hand-rolled cigarettes.

I very vaguely register the sound of the front door opening. I realize I've been staring at the photos on the built-in bookshelf since I collapsed onto the bed. Poppy's in all of them: in front of the house, grinning with his arm around my grandmother's shoulders; Poppy's formal army portrait; Poppy with all of us, with some of us, with one of us at a time. Poppy with me, eight years old and my right leg in a cast way too big for me, frozen in a moment of instruction. I can almost feel his calloused hands curling around mine as he guides my small fingers over the strings of the violin I'll eventually grow into—

"I don't know what to say," Fenris whispers from the doorway, "but, I am here."

Grief constricts in my chest like a circle of thorns. My vision begins to swim in salt water. The pictures blur, and Fenris's outline is just a hazy impression of movement as he sinks onto the edge of the mattress beside me, hands glued awkwardly to his thighs. "Don't say anything, then," I beg.

Everything begins to unravel, and I lean sideways into his shoulder. My shoulders tremble, and he puts one arm around me as I begin to weep into the soft pad of skin and muscle just under his collarbone. He strokes my hair and rocks me back and forth, murmuring a constant stream of soothing Tevinter into my hair. I fall apart, and he safeguards the scattered pieces as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe this moment will be something to think about later, but for now, I just need to be held.

I know I'm done when my head starts to throb. The salty, damp stain I've left on Fenris's navy button down is impressive, really. At least as big as my hand. Wordlessly I turn my face away and honk indelicately into a tissue I've kept in my pocket. The front door bangs open downstairs; conversations and laughter and tears drift through the house, but it doesn't feel as empty as it did in the reception hall. _I _don't feel as empty.

Cello jumps into my lap, leaving white hairs all over my black skirt out of pure feline spite. I scratch him behind the ears for a brief moment, and smile when he grudgingly begins to purr. Poppy's gone. He's bones and ashes in a burgundy-glazed pot someone has undoubtedly ferried from the church. He's memory, and stories, and pictures that will never quite measure up to the real thing. "He taught me how to play music, you know," I sniffle. Like it can explain who my grandfather _was_ to me.

And Fenris, who has seen and listened to the mess that comes off my strings and still thinks I'm beautiful when I play (_whatever THAT _means), understands _completely_. He presses a chaste, gentle kiss to my forehead and twines his fingers with mine. "I wish I could have known him better," he replies solemnly.

He leads me downstairs, where I try to joke about migrating casseroles, and the fact that this is the third major family event he's attended with me. Where baby Liam is still holding court with a captivated audience. Where Helena and Emmett and I pose for a picture. Where we _remember_. Poppy's gone. And yet, he's not. _Jesus _death is weird.

I'm here. I'm grieving, and maybe a little broken, but I'm _here_.

And so is Fenris.


	51. Close enough for horseshoes

**AN: **After this point, I think I'm going to save any apologetic/gushy ANs for the end. Your reviews for the previous chapter have meant a lot to me. Your reviews for EVERY chapter have meant a lot to me. YOU keep me going; YOU keep me motivated; YOU keep me _writing._ This community has been a real blessing, and I am so, _so _grateful to be a part of it. To **Taffia, Liso66, Nameless-Sinner, The Original Frizzi, **and so many others who deserve their own chapter of shout-outs: thank you. This chapter is dedicated to all of you.

But Bioware still owns Fenris. I can't do anything about that-sorry. :p

* * *

><p>A text sets my phone alight with a short buzz. I fish it out of my pocket without looking away from the microscope and unlock the screen to read the message.<p>

_Did I do it right?_

A grin instantly spreads from ear to ear as I type a reply. _Way to go, ace._

Fenris's next text catches me as I'm preparing a fresh slide. _Will I see you tonight?_

My thesis defense is in an hour and a half. My entire argument depends on a sliver of bone the size of a fingernail clipping, resting on a glass slide not six inches from my elbow. I've been working towards this for every millisecond of the last two years. And it will still be there after I text back, _Wouldn't miss it._

I'm still grinning as I return my attention to my microscope. I need to focus; I need to be _now_, at my workstation in the forensics lab, not six hours ahead with Fenris after I've conquered the world with my stunning intellect and effortless charm I learned from my very Southern mother (_there's optimistic, and there's RIDICULOUSLY optimistic_). I only have another eighty-six minutes to check and recheck facts, to obsess over decimal points in my statistics results, to take deep breaths so I don't hyperventilate oh Jesus I think I missed—

"I couldn't wait."

I whirl towards the sound of Fenris's voice in the laboratory doorway. If I thought he looked out of place among my forest of reference material at home (_which I think is still scattered all over the living room floor_), it's nothing compared to how strange it is to see him, new cell phone in hand and standing in the middle of a modern forensics lab. I throw my arms around his neck, and let eight of my remaining freak-out minutes trickle away. I live for these moments, when he almost absentmindedly strokes the tender skin behind my ear with the pad of his thumb; when I press my cheek into the perfect softness of his black t-shirt. It's probably downright maudlin, but in the two months since Poppy died—I don't know. Some things are important, and some things are important _right now_.

"I'm glad you're here," I murmur against his shoulder. That gadget in his hand was the best decision we ever made. I get an extra rush of Fenris-induced endorphins at least once every fifteen minutes, and he doesn't have to immediately assume I'm being held against my will by blood mages, monstrous spiders, or dancing mabari clowns (_and if you think we didn't have that exact conversation, think again_). "I'm—"

"Freaking out?" he guesses, a smile in his voice. "You will be fine."

"You don't know that for sure," I try to argue, determined to be miserable.

"I do, actually," he shoots back calmly. "You pace. You fidget. You read entire pages out loud, just to see if they make sense. You talk in your sleep, you've lost at least half a stone, and I am now certain you are a little mad."

"Don't sugarcoat it or anything," I interject with heavy sarcasm, even though I'm thrilled to hear I've lost weight without really trying (_I'll have to look up exactly what a "stone" is later_). "What's your point?"

The rhythm of his touch changes; it becomes more determinedly soothing, and I let myself melt into it. "You will be fine," he finishes, "because you won't let all that be for nothing." He crooks a finger under my chin and kisses me gently. "I know it, and you know it."

A warm, glowing feeling pools low in my belly and pours into my limbs like white chocolate. "You could've just said good luck," I feel compelled to point out.

"Grossly insufficient. Then I couldn't do this." He kisses me again, like nothing else matters, and reluctantly steps away from me. "I have to get back—I will see you tonight."

There is a heart's beat of ineffable perfection as I watch his figure retreat through the doorway. Black t-shirt and dark blue jeans, tapered ears and unnaturally white hair, smiling over his shoulder as he turns back for one last look—the image sears itself onto my mind's eye with a white-hot poignancy that lingers. I let it burn through my remaining freak-out hour (_even though I'm not freaking out anymore_) and another hour of sitting in a stuffy conference room, fielding the ritual inquisition and defending exactly why a statistical synthesis of twenty-six skeletal measurements should be important to anyone but me. I conclude my argument with eloquence and finality like I practiced in the mirror; none of this awkward trailing off aimlessly. My advisor smiles encouragingly, standing as she leads my committee in a quiet round of applause.

I'm done. I'm choking down a second conference-room cookie when I finally realize it. Holy crap, I'm actually _done_. I had expected to feel exhausted; the abrupt tingle of raw, giddy energy takes me by surprise. A burst of sunshine and diesel greets me at the campus bus station. Funny how the squeal of brakes can sound so much like something _ending_.

Reclaiming my space—my _home_—is a ritual of its own, set to a Pandora station created specifically for this moment. The articles go into a thick binder on the bookshelf with the other reference material. I sweep out the academic mania with the inevitable layer of dust and pet hair. The small colony of coffee mugs and take-out containers disappears little by little into the kitchen. And everywhere I go, the clouds of Febreeze follow. I silence the part of me that wonders _Now what_? That can wait. Right now, my place is clean. Right now, there's a post-thesis-defense shower that feels beyond incredible and smells like honey and citrus.

Right now, I have a date.

I guess a natural consequence of having living, breathing examples of your work walking around an environment as microcosmic as a college town is you become something of a local celebrity. Word's gotten out, and it's stayed out: Mystic Mark's is the place to go for ink. For an _experience_. For _Fenris_ (_I'm not jealous, I'm not jealous, I'm not—_). And through some combination of talent, good business sense and voodoo, what started as a crazy scheme they found at the bottom of a tequila bottle has turned into a pretty classy joint.

The place is humming with activity by the time I finally find a parking place. The bell-shaped skirt of my black halter dress sways with every step, ballet-toe pumps clicking hollowly against the pavement. A soft almost-summer breeze stirs the leaves of the oak and dogwood trees planted in the square (_oh no you don't I worked too hard on my I'm-not-wearing-makeup makeup to sneeze_). For just an instant I fear I smell rain, but then it's gone; the cloudless twilight sky overhead allays my doubts with a riotous burst of color. A two-sided sign is propped open on the sidewalk outside the shop, familiar blocky letters enlarged so they can be read from a distance.

_Opening: Mystic Mark's Body Modifications and Gallery. Local Artists Welcome._

Maybe they stand out because I'm looking for them. Maybe they'd stand out anywhere. One way or another, there is a pencil-and-paper tempo hidden beneath the strange, interwoven melodies of art and music that is unmistakably _Fenris_. I instantly recognize his impatient hand in the sketches _(I can't bring myself to call them "pieces"_). It slashes across blank pages in charcoal and pencil, hurrying to capture a moment before it passes; it creates fissures in empty space that pull me into fractured patterns of geometrical nonsense. And everywhere I look, I see his mark splashed over skin on proud display: the walking, living, and breathing exhibits that are as much a part of tonight as the artists themselves.

This—this is _his_. I let sensation envelop me, for just a minute. Local bands vie with Mark's eclectic taste in music, curling through the speaker system like smoke and wine (_and acid, when the occasional club remix sneaks in_). I hum along with the songs I know, listen to the ones I don't, and constantly scan the crowd for—

"_Tua bellitia dolet_," a voice whispers in my ear.

I turn slowly, and find my face separated from Fenris's by only a hand's width. He claims my hand, and everything goes watercolor-soft around the edges as he brushes his lips across over the backs of my fingers. I swallow my instinctive surprise at his proximity and try to concentrate on what he's just said. I don't need an exact translation (_though I'm always interested in expanding my Tevinter vocabulary_); the husky undertone and velvet-pine _look_ are enough. I know that look; I saw it the first time I wore this dress, four months ago. I've caught it in unguarded moments, between the sheets or in the kitchen or over the top of his sketchbook.

I shouldn't talk, really; I'm sure the look I'm giving him is just as—_look_-y. It's what happens when two relatively well-adjusted adults develop completely unnecessary hang-ups about expressing themselves verbally (_well, at least one relatively well-adjusted adult, in this case. I'm considering therapy_). I smooth out an imaginary crease in his navy button-down, just for an excuse to touch him. "Hello to you too," I murmur under the buzz of speculation in our immediate vicinity.

"You are beyond lovely," Fenris declares, almost reverently.

I accept a glass of red wine he deftly lifts from a passing tray. "Is that what you said?" I ask, unable to resist grinning when I recognize the almost-Aggregio vintage. "Just now, I mean?"

"More or less. Shall we?" He guides me through the shop—sorry, the _gallery_—with one hand lightly pressed against the bare skin between my shoulder blades. The show is organized only in the most liberal sense of the word: oil, acrylic and mixed media exhibits hang side by side with still photographs and famous posters reinterpreted. I will admit, I'm relieved (_and okay fine, a little disappointed_) to find myself absent from what's on display. That sketch he did of me with my violin is very..._personal_.

"_Venhedis_," Fenris swears. "I almost forgot to ask-how did your siege go?"

"My_ siege—_?" I echo, laughing. "Oh, my defense. I talked. They listened." I shrug; this afternoon, as important as it was, seems far away. "You were right—I was fine."

He smirks a peridot _I told you so_, fingers twined with mine. I drift happily in his wake as he works the room—_Fenris_, working a room, who would've thought?—stopping to talk to each artist who has, at one point or another in the months he's been working, found his or her way onto Fenris's chair. A tattoo parlor isn't the first place I'd expect complex networking to happen—that's why we have Facebook, after all—but I certainly can't argue with the results.

"What are you thinking?" he croons, close to my ear.

"This is amazing," I answer without having to think about it. "_You're_ amazing." I watch a red-hot stain creep downward from tips of his ears at the naked compliment; I can't quite tell if he's pleased or just embarrassed. "What are _you_ thinking?"

He's quiet for a long, watchful moment. He surveys the dense crowd pressed into every corner of this small domain, at the hodgepodge of styles and subjects popping out from the walls and the strangers who just might buy something. The moment is too big not to share. He lightly grasps my fingers, anchoring himself to me as an incredulous, shell-shocked smile tugs one corner of his mouth upwards. "I am thinking, I cannot believe we pulled this off." He turns a spring-bright gaze towards me, the amber flecks in his gaze practically golden in the gallery's moody, artistic lighting. "This _is_ amazing," he realizes.

_Oh honey, if only we weren't in public. _

There are things that shouldn't be said out loud; I don't realize I've just said one of them until Fenris casts a quick, guilty look around the crowded room, cheeks glowing. His arm slips around my waist, urging me closer with the gentle pressure of his fingers. "Come with me," he whispers, a subdued heat to his tone that licks at my banked emotions like flame.

I feel my eyebrows twitch toward my hairline in surprise. The crowd shifts pliantly around us as he leads me towards the closed door at the back of the shop. He lets go of my waist, and my knees nearly buckle as he covers my eyes from behind. "Trust me?" he asks, almost playfully. I nod as much as I'm able, with my head trapped between his palms, and he herds me forward, shifting his hands as needed in order to open the door, to set my half-full glass of wine—_somewhere_. I hear light switches click off, can sense different lights switching on in my lyrium-tinged darkness. His hands slide down my skin, over the thin ribbon of material holding up my dress and over my shoulders. "Open your eyes, _dulca_."

The room is suffused in a soft, dim glow from the single string of Christmas lights tracing a square around the ceiling. Sketches are scattered across the walls, not framed like the ones in the main gallery, but loose, attached to the wall only by scotch tape. There's Scooter, frozen in a standoff with Binx over the water bowl. Another Scooter, chasing the Frisbee with her tongue dangling heedlessly out of her mouth. There's the kitchen, messy and used after a home cooked meal; the living room, couch and coffee table patiently waiting for occupancy. There's the bedroom—

I find my own face, captured in expressions I've never thought of as uniquely mine until now. _My_ smile. _My_ eyes. _My_ frown. _My_ slumber (_a lot of these; nice to know I'm not the only creeper in this relationship_). It's all here, rendered not with impatience, but with care, with attention. My penciled self smiles with undisguised glee as she cradles the violin against her chest, the sheet falling off her shoulder as she adjusts her posture for playing—

The air hitches in my throat as I realize _this_ is what he sees. He's _drawn_ it, as plainly as I've _played_ it. These moments—none of them are particularly _important_. For every one he's taped to the wall, we've had a hundred more that didn't make it into the sketchbook. For every one of my frozen smiles, he's seen a thousand that became kisses immediately afterwards. This is every day. This is unremarkable.

But this is _home_. This—this is—

"Say something?" he nervously breaks the silence.

_I love you_, I think at him, as loudly as I dare. I turn in his arms and press my lips to his in a heart-heavy kiss. He gasps through his nose, hands skimming my skin left exposed by my dress. _I love you, and I _get_ it_. The music from the main gallery changes; I can't help smiling as I recognize the tune. "Dance with me," I whisper against his mouth, Christina Perri warming up to the chorus.

It doesn't have a name that I know of, but everyone knows it. It's a dance of turning circles with your feet while you hold each other close. It's a dance of listening to your lover's heartbeat, of your eyelids fluttering closed and the world melting away. It's a dance of making love through layers of clothing and skin until you're not sure if you're even two bodies anymore. Fenris traces the flimsy border of my dress against my back with the tip of one finger, eyes burning with a promise for _later_ as he skirts the sweetheart neckline and presses his cheek to the crown of my head. I feel his lips move against my hair, and I swallow hard. I shift my temple until my mouth rests against my favorite spot under his collarbone, and move my lips back.

"—_How long can we keep this up, up, up?—"_

Baby steps. Not _even_ baby steps. But all in all, _much_ better than the _last_ time I was in this room, wearing this dress. And even though the music changes, inevitably ruining the mood, I feel like I've accomplished something.

And I really cannot wait for _later_.

I remember the rest of the evening as if I see it from the inside of a glittering bubble. My lover smiles at my side, posture relaxed as he accepts congratulations from complete strangers. The inquisitive once-overs (_and one or two sneers_) can't reach me here; I let the simple reality of Fenris's hand in mine answer those. Mark waves at us from behind the register, grinning slyly as if he thinks he knows exactly what we've been up do. I wave back—it's not like he's _wrong_—while Fenris clears his throat and develops a keen interest in a lopsided orange square splashed across a canvas. The sea of faces ebbs and flows, changing with the inexorable pull of music, art and alcohol as the moon climbs its ladder of stars.

Then someone drops an _It's getting late_ like a paper boat into the river, and it drags a current of agreement in its wake. Fenris's touch turns suggestive as we watch the assembly trickle out in twos and threes, sending electric jolts of anticipation through me that tingle all the way to my fingertips. Mark dismisses our halfhearted offers to help with cleanup, smirking like a tattooed Bacchus as he waves us out the door. I jingle my keys at Fenris with a smolder of my own (_though not nearly as impressive as his, it has to be said_), and he gives me a head start as we race to my car. One iron-strong arm snakes around my waist, and his hungry kiss pins me against the driver's side. I push back, dragging my hands through his hair, clenching and unclenching my fists in his shirt. His touch dances over me, hot through my dress and _feverish_ on my skin. I tip my head back as he half-lifts me, explicitly surrendering to his wandering kisses as he travels down my neck—_Good grief, I'm necking in a parking lot. _

I bite my bottom lip against a sudden quiver of laughter. I don't think I've done this since I was a teenager. Fenris shivers out of the moment with me; our faces are still so close I can feel the hot embarrassment radiating off his cheeks. He lets me slide away from him, a wicked quirk to his mouth that belies the gentlemanly playacting as he holds my door open. Miraculously, I manage to not hit a light pole, a pedestrian, or the moon, and we make the short journey home in charged silence.

By the time we close the front door behind us, the potent, adolescent urgency has gentled to a sweet simmer. I step into Fenris's embrace with a sound stuck between a sigh and a purr, tracing the muscled contours of his back through his shirt. I kick off my shoes as he slowly turns me in circles toward the bedroom. The sudden drop in height puts my nose squarely even with the hollow of his throat. I slip a button free, smiling against his markings in satisfaction as the air shudders in and out of him. "Temptress," he accuses me breathlessly.

"Mm-hm," I agree, gasping as he finds the zipper and nimbly pulls the teeth apart. Carpet tickles the soles of my bare feet as he helps me step out of the black pool of dress on the floor. I finish unbuttoning him and push his shirt off his shoulders, trailing my fingers up and down the familiar pathways of his markings. "Is it working?"

He doesn't miss a beat. He lifts me bodily off the floor, lyrium tingling wherever his skin touches mine as he crushes me into the mattress. I roll him underneath me (_a girl's gotta breathe_), and the rest of our clothing disappears. He cups my bottom, pulling me against him as he sits up to kiss me. "I am _yours_," he rumbles against the tender skin behind my earlobe, one hand in my hair. "You know that, don't you?"

I follow the chain of my necklace around his neck with one finger, trace the outline of the circular pendant against his chest. "I'm yours," I whisper, awed into helpless honesty.

Gravity takes care of the rest. There is something oddly thrilling about making love upside down; our feet tangle in the pillows, and we kick them to the floor. He stretches my arms above my head, a silent plea for _more_ of me as he settles, as his capable hands stroke fires to life over my skin. I capture his hands, squeezing his fingers between mine as we wreak havoc with each other's senses. "Say it again, _flamma_," he begs hoarsely, gaze darting over my face in the dark. "Please—_say it again_."

Everything contracts to a star-bright implosion as I cry out softly, "I'm yours. _Yours_."

Fenris trembles, and presses his lips to mine. He rocks against me once more, and then he's still except for the heavy thud I can sense under his sternum. He kisses the sweat off my skin, caresses the damp hair away from my face. "_Ego vester sum,_" he murmurs. _I am yours._

Sometimes, it's the words you say. Sometimes, it's the words you _don't _say. And once in a while, when your lyrium-enhanced elven lover curls around you and you fall asleep in topsy-turvy covers with your lips pressed to the back of his hand, it's the words you say _instead_.


	52. The rainbow warps

Thunder growls through my blissful dreamscape, and I jerk awake with a sharp gasp. Fenris's arm curls tighter over my hips, but other than that he's still—a clear sign the sudden noise has woken him up too. We're still upside-down atop the disheveled covers; I've scooted practically underneath him in an effort to stay warm. "Are you all right, _dulca_?" he asks softly.

Lightning sparks through the gaps in the blinds, pale blue against the velvet night. I roll over, putting my back to the window. He draws me closer against his chest and tucks my head into the hollow created between his shoulder and the mattress. "Better, now," I answer. "You?"

He shivers involuntarily as thunder claps once, like two mighty hands coming together against an insect. But he presses a smile into my hairline, wandering hands finding all the places where he knows I like to be touched. "Better, now," he offers my words back to me. Sound and light rip through the deceptive raindrop hush, and a fresh shudder courses through him. "Why do they frighten you?"

"_Wizard of Oz_. You?"

Too late, a crackle of warning shoots up and down my spine. His hands abruptly stop, and somehow a chill slithers into the impossibly tiny space between his skin and mine. I'm torn between retracting the question, and waiting out his sudden, remote silence.

And then, after I've convinced myself he's not going to answer and it won't matter whether or not I tell him to forget I asked, he whispers, "I was—_taken_—on a night like this. I can't be certain, of course," he adds, Tevinter consonants sharp and curt. "But."

_Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ The _one _answer I should have anticipated, and it's the only one I _didn't_. All this time spent away from the ugly, brutal reality of who and what he _was _even before Kirkwall, let alone _here, now_. I've managed to bring all that up on the night he finally succeeds in creating a piece of his own freedom.

_Damn _my pillow talk sucks.

There's probably a graceful way to extract one's entire freaking leg from one's mouth. And it's probably _not _scrambling out of bed to make a pot of coffee (_gently; it's not HIS fault he was a slave and I am tactless_). I pull a large hoodie from my closet and tug it over my head, beating an awkward retreat into the kitchen. The light switch clicks between _on _and _off _with no response: the power's been knocked out. So much for coffee.

Fenris's silhouette barely causes a ripple in the dark living room, bare feet whispering across the hardwood floor. "I've upset you," he observes quietly.

I hear the question he isn't asking: _why are you upset? _I start to hate myself a little when I realize he thinks I'm upset _with him_; apparently I didn't flee gently enough. "It isn't you," I hasten to assure him. Great—now I have to _explain_. I have to explain how imagining his capture brings tears to my eyes. I have to explain how the thought of a little-boy-Fenris in chains turns my stomach with outrage. I have to explain how I hate—_hate—_everything he went through.

And after I explain all _that_, I have to explain how he wouldn't be the man I love _without _it.

"Erin?"

A snarl of thunder cracks open the night with all the violence of a grenade, and my window for explaining anything is snapped shut. Fenris's markings flash a startled acid blue, muted through the dark fabric of his jeans, and he whips his head toward the square of masking tape still clinging stubbornly to the floor. I sidle closer to him and hesitantly work my fingers between his, trying to shake off the icy squeeze of fear that constricts in my throat. "Fenr—?"

It isn't a sound, _exactly_. It isn't a feeling, _exactly_. It isn't even a sensation, _exactly_. It's a crash and a rip mashed together and played backwards on a broken record that's been taped back together in all the wrong order. It punches through the still air in the living room, leaving an oil slick of _wrongness _on my skin. There's a _moment_—that frozen second between the explosion and the shockwave. Then Fenris tears his hand from mine, markings screaming in warning. I clap my palms over my ears as the pressure quickly builds to a level beyond human tolerance. I grit my teeth, a quip on my tongue—_can't they just knock?_—but unable to force the words past the dull, persistent agony. But this has happened before. This is familiar. I may not particularly _enjoy _it, but—

Fenris shoves me to the floor, shielding me with his body, as the first missiles streak out of nowhere—literally. Sight and touch are magnified, sound queerly absent as I watch everything happen sideways. Metal legs and feet stomp in rhythmic vibrations over the floor. Fenris scrambles off of me, fists and feet swinging in arcs of beautiful precision. Scooter bays a soundless challenge from the bedroom doorway, looking eerily feral as the ghostly light from Fenris's markings plays over her mottled black-and-blue fur in pulsing waves. Something small and lethal cuts through the air above my head, thick with the sense of time having frozen, and she jerks with the impact. Sound pops abruptly back into focus: the bedroom door bangs against the wall as she topples into it, yelping in fright and pain.

This—this is _invasion_. I've been _invaded_.

A feeling like black ice pushing apart pavement solidifies into a purposeful lump in the pit of my stomach. If this is invasion, then _this_—this must be _rage_. I tremble with the novelty of it, shaking up off the floor. I pull it onto my arms like opera gloves, all the way to the shoulder; I slide it over my legs like the knee-high stiletto boots that are still in my trunk. My right hand clenches, and I drive it into the closest sneering face.

In the end, it's all just physics. Skin and muscle warp around my knuckles. A fault line of bone-on-bone resists for a brief instant, and then yields in a fantastic tremor of fracture. The slaver's head snaps to one side, momentarily stunned. That's the key to being stronger than you look, I think: just don't look strong. It's a good opening, and I've been taught better than to waste it. I ignore the vulnerable instep; bare feet against boot and greave will not end well for me. I aim my heel at the inside of his knee, instead. He clenches his legs together—_all in good time, motherfucker_—and wobbles. I change direction, catching his unarmored chin with the ball of my foot. Teeth graze brokenly against my bare sole, and he stumbles backwards. _Now_. The top of my shin fits neatly into the inverted V of the man's crotch, and the sensation of soft, vulnerable flesh bruising against impervious bone and pure rage is positively _intoxicating_. Fenris crouches and roughly tugs the sword from the man's limp grasp. He thrusts once; metal grates wetly against metal and blood and bone, and the slaver screams, already dead.

I suppose this is a good time for my innate decency to rear its head in horror. It doesn't. I suppose this would be the moment to have a profound epiphany on the savage dual nature of man (_and elf_). I don't. I pick my next target—a strangely disembodied helm bent almost double in the cramped space as gauntleted hands turn the winch on a crossbow—and throw another punch. Fenris stabs around me with his pilfered blade and the slaver drops instantly, unmoving.

We _do_ make a good team. How about that. Fenris's markings pulse with light, leaving a thick scent like ice and gunpowder in strange pockets of displaced air. Splashes of dark, wet fluid streak the walls, popping explosively from sacs of flesh as he tears through one assailant after another. He brings the sword close to his face, lip curling in a contemptuous sneer. His eyes lock with mine, and like we've done this innumerable times (_instead of, you know, once_) we press our backs together in the center of the room. All that's missing is a clever one-liner.

That's my biggest mistake, in retrospect: feeling even remotely optimistic about our chances.

The buzz starts under my back teeth, radiating through my skull and pushing forward until I feel as though I can _taste _it, vibrating against the roof of my mouth. Light sparks in the center of the fray, roughly level with my chest, and swells to the size of a soccer ball. I choke on the air in my lungs as it burns all the way down; it's like breathing battery acid. Electricity arcs against an invisible membrane, bouncing against the sphere's sides with nowhere to go. Fenris shouts—_something _at me—_what—_?

I _feel _the energy in the ball release, as though the membranes on every cell in my body suddenly burst apart, and my feet leave the ground. So _this _is what it feels like to be struck by lightning. The force of the explosion propels me through the air; I have no doubt I could fly for miles, unhindered by things like _walls _and _furniture _and—

_CRAAACK!_

I don't think the sound that tears from my throat is precisely human, as I bounce cruelly off the wall close to the ceiling and drop onto the kitchen table. My momentum forces me into a roll, and I land on the pitiless hardwood floor with another horrible _crack_. I can't see Fenris. I can't breathe. I can't _think_. I can't decide which is worse.

I brace my elbows against the floor and try to lift myself, chest first. A heavy foot stomps between my shoulder blades, and I scream again as I'm forced back to the ground. I struggle weakly against the extra weight; pain lances through my chest—_were those my ribs?_—and I slump helplessly.

"_No!" _Fenris roars above the lethal whistling of blades and arrows. "I will not allow it!"

An almighty _rip _splits apart the flimsy tapestry of life, time, and space. Fenris drops, blood flowing into his eyes from an ugly-looking wound near his hairline. Rough hands force him down beside me, pressing his cheek into the floor. He snarls wordlessly, shaking against his assailants. A volcanic scowl of hate and fear darkens his features as his gaze lands on something above and behind me. An elaborately-embroidered hem swirls around booted feet between my face and Fenris's. My field of vision begins to collapse inward; voices drift incoherently above my head. The excruciating pressure between my shoulder blades abruptly lifts, and I whimper involuntarily as I am pushed onto my injured side.

Fenris starts an enraged growl; a crunching slap reverberates through my confusion with startling clarity, and he is ominously still. Darkness closes over me like the pages of a book, and I watch the tattooed soles of his feet recede into nothing. _Going—going—_

_Gone._


	53. Why can't I breathe, evil angel?

Oblivion is slow to unravel. Sensation trickles into me like drops of moisture down the threads of a spider web. A hard surface pushes relentlessly against my back, the ends of my (_I think_) broken ribs ticking the outside of my lungs. I can't pull my hands apart. Everything _hurts_.

_ Open your eyes_.

Can't. Hurts.

_ Trust me. You need. To open. Your eyes_.

Formless shadow and light swirl above me, sharp claws dragging over my skin and weighing my limbs down with a dull, toxic ache. Pinpricks of light dance like fairies on the periphery of my blurry vision. I chase them with heavy eyes, trying in vain to separate them from the hood-and-lantern heads circling above me.

_ Focus_. _FOCUS—_

"Sleep, pet. It will be over soon."

A cotton-ball blackness stitches over my head like a shroud. I flail without moving; my screams of protest are stolen from my lips and silenced. _Oh God—no, no, no no nononononono—_

_Fenris—_

The nightmare is waiting for me. I barely feel the gritty shingles through the sleeping bag and extra blanket. The red-and-green plaid flannel pajamas are itchy against my skin with surplus heat and exposed elastic, but it's Christmas Eve. I'm _gonna _wear my red-and-green plaid flannel pajamas. Half-asleep and sweaty, I roll the wrong way. I scrape my hand against the shingles trying to catch myself, too late. No one's going to catch me. No one's coming to save me. All that's left is the plunge, and—

Something arrests my instinctive flailing, and I jerk into full consciousness. Tension pulls insistently against my repeated attempts to tug myself into a sitting position. My wrists and ankles are wrapped in strong leather cuffs, attached by nylon straps to rails on either side of me. The twin mattress barely has enough room for me, and I can feel the coarse thread of the stiff sheets against my bare calves, through the thin cotton nightgown.

"I apologize for the restraints, but I am afraid they are necessary for your safety."

From the corner of my eye I catch movement. A pale, humanoid shape slowly resolves into a woman, white coat snapping smartly around her knees. She approaches with deliberate calm, the way you're supposed to with a wild animal. Her hands are cool as she slides my glasses crookedly onto my face. I awkwardly contort myself so I can straighten them with one hand, still chained to the bed rail.

My companion isn't a pretty woman, now that I can see her clearly. Her sharp, narrow features are framed by hair the color of dead leaves. Blue-white eyes assess my bound prostration with cool interest, and something _ugly _flashes over her mouth, thin-lipped and concealed beneath a dark layer of lipstick. I'd call it a smile, except it reminds me too much of something forgotten and monstrous at the bottom of a cold ocean. "You may call me Dr. H," she continues. "I'm here to oversee your rehabilitation."

Slow tears spring from the cracks in my inner bedrock like tar. There _has _to be a benign explanation, some _other _reason for why I'm chained to a bed for my own safety. For why I'm being _rehabilitated_. I'm not—I _can't _be—

But there is only one reason for this woman-_this _woman to be here, exuding about as much human warmth and professional compassion as did the glacier that sank the Titanic. I've been flirting with it for almost six months now. I've let it swirl around my feet like an undertow, believing myself safe as long as I don't stray too far from shore. But I've stumbled. I've been dragged under.

I am drowning.

A keening, white-capped wail begins to build in my throat. I tug futilely against my restraints; there isn't enough give for me to pull inwards, to bury my face in the privacy of my knees and howl. I yank. I roll. I pitch to and fro on the mattress like a ship in a screaming gale. Except it's _me _screaming. A quick sting of pressure squeezes into my right arm, somewhere above my elbow. The edges begin to blur, and I sag limply against the mattress. The darkness pours over me, and I slip beneath it gratefully, tasting salt and copper.

_ Fen—_

Time is useless; any attempt to measure its passage is futile. My body finds a new rhythm, veering erratically on a cycle of extremes. The narrow bed quakes with the force of my weeping. The sound invariably attracts attention; hood-and-lantern shadows seem to undulate across the floor, and I am quickly silenced by swift needles bearing gifts. This must be how gods grieve: the violent upheaval in the natural current and flow of _me _feels too big for any mere human to endure. I learn to pray again: I pray for the numbing slumber, for the crush of oblivion. My hand sometimes is pinched between the rail and the mattress, caught reaching for a lean, warm body. I wake myself with a yelp. I remember where I am. I remember the reason I'm here. That lean, warm body-it never _was_. And the whole cycle starts over.

Weep. Submit to the needle. Sleep.

Dr. H. makes a noise from her corner. Chains rattle, and the tension holding me in place on the mattress is abruptly released. My eyes fill with a stinging mist of tears as pins and needles tease sensation back into my numbed extremities. Dr. H offers me a set of clean hospital pajamas as a swap for the crumpled nightgown. Two orderlies stare through me with professional detachment, and I self-consciously turn toward the wall in a pitiful bid for privacy. The creases in the lightweight cotton pants smooth into obscurity as I shake my legs into them.

Dr. H. pulls phrases out of the heavy fog still clouding my senses: I stare fixedly at her dark lips and try put "risk", "formula", and "dependency" in the right order. She beckons me closer, and I shuffle forward, shying away like a horse when she attempts to loop her arm through mine. The orderlies stand to attention behind me, but Dr. H. soothes them with a lazy flick of her manicured fingers. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder a few paces behind, trailing us like watchdogs as Dr. H. leads me into the hallway.

All my tiny separate worlds have collided like dying planets. They're all the same place, now. They're white tile hallways and fluorescent lights. They're sea-foam green paint and the sterile reek of potent disinfectant.

A dagger-sharp pain twists through my chest, and I drop to my knees, gasping. The sting is familiar by now, as the orderlies flank me and lift me with hands that are neither gentle nor painful. Dr. H. blows a sigh through her nose and stares at my limp form with half-lidded disinterest. "We'll try again later," she decides.

My toes drag across the tile floor as the orderlies escort me back the way we came. My head lolls like a rag doll's from shoulder to shoulder; my senses warp and turn everything upside down. The twin mattress feels as yielding as wood, unfamiliar sheets abrasive against my skin. The bars in the south-facing window keep shadows and light in their places; I can't get the thought out of my mind that if I let those black bars touch me, I'll never be able to leave. The sights and sounds and smells of this place—they aren't _mine_. They aren't _home_.

For that alone, I hate them.

Consciousness is floating atop a tar-black surface, spinning in slow circles as if caught in a gentle current. Dr. H. watches me from the bedside; she sends me under and pulls me back up gasping. The air squeezes in and out of my lungs, as though breathing against a vice around my ribs, until I weep tears that burn and my mouth fills with the acidic tang of copper.

Once. I dare to ask her _once _if perhaps I should be moved, to someplace with different beds and machines that beep with my pulse to let me know I'm still alive. She only smiles that cold-thing smile, vicious underneath her dark lipstick. One of the orderlies moves. The needles dig beneath my skin, and I slip under once again. The pain in my chest fades-it doesn't go away; it just stops being so important.

I think—I think _nothing _is important. Not anymore.

Dr. H. stops trying to walk the halls with me; I can't take more than a few steps before I double over in agony. Even when supine, all but the shallowest inhalations burn and scream. She reclines in the chair beside my narrow bed, just _watching _me. We don't talk, we don't interact at all. This feels less like rehab and more like a vigil. I surface long enough to tell her as much. "Gallows humor," I explain, smiling wanly through the familiar knives-and-corset ache.

She stands calmly and motions for the orderlies to follow. "It's time," she sighs resignedly.

I can't acknowledge their departure with anything more active than confused blinking. Dr. H. glances over her shoulder at my prone, hurting shell, silhouetted by the sheet. "A pity," she remarks as she closes the door behind her. A lock slides into place with a resonant _click_, and I am alone.

_ That can't mean anything good_.

This? This is why I'm here in the first place. I gingerly roll off the bed and find a spot on the floor where the shadow bars won't touch me. Sweat beads on my forehead, and I collapse onto the cool floor in gratitude. I stare at the door, waiting for Dr. H. to realize her orderlies didn't dose me before they left. I glance warily at the shadow bars, reassured when I realize they're moving away from me. I tap my fingertip against the grayish flecks embedded in the white tile, counting them like upside-down stars until my eyelids grow heavy.

Emmett was thirteen that year. _Much _too old to still believe in Santa, but he was a good enough brother to let Helena and me cling to the childish dream without too much grumbling. He even read _The Night Before Christmas _to us. The sleeping bag-that was _my_ idea, even though Emmett got in _big _trouble for it later no matter what I said later to exonerate him. I wanted to see him _first_.

My palm stings where I scraped it trying to steady myself. The sleeping bag twists around me, trapping my leg in the absolute worst possible position. White-hot shock ripples through my immature bone, and I snap. Poppy's deck is cold, and gritty with sand blown from the nearby shore. I can't move. I can't even breathe.

_ I've landed. I NEVER land_.

The wooden planks creak under the weight of an urgent stride. I find my voice—a wordless cry of fright, confusion and pain—and two slippered feet sniff me out like faithful hounds. Leather and hand-rolled cigarettes bathe me in safety, calloused hands gently untangling me from the sleeping bag and lifting me in arms not yet wasted by disease.

"I f-fell," I hiccup, well on my way to full-fledged, heaving sobs. "Poppy, I _fell_."

"I know, baby," he soothes me. "You're safe now-I've got you."

The tile under my cheek is clammy with the heat of my body; my skin pulls and sticks to the flat surface as I struggle to a sitting position. The shadow bars climb the wall above the bed, black against ghostly blue moonlight. Everything else is dark, an oil-slick of night poured into sharp-edged molds of walls, floor and ceiling. My chest almost—almost—doesn't hurt, for the moment. But there are dark spots peppering the white tile, spots that smear when I brush them with my fingers.

_ That's—"_Not good," I murmur. I am afraid to try standing; cautiously I slide onto my hands and knees and crawl forward. The crown of my head gently bumps against the door, and I lift my hand to the knob. The cold metal crumbles in my fingers like sand gone too long without the kiss of the sun, and the door swings open.

Brilliant sunlight spills across the floor in a wash of gold. The reading chair beside the window is surrounded by stacks of books, high enough so a child can easily reach what she wants. A pair of crutches rests forgotten on the floor next to the bed, where a small shape rises and falls with the regularity of painless breathing beneath the butter-and-lavender quilt—

Jesus H. tap-dancing Christ. Now I _know _I've lost it.

"Hi," the little girl greets me from behind a pair of round glasses too large for her face. Green eyes peek curiously through a tousled fringe of reddish-brown bangs. _God _I hated that haircut. "Hand me—_please _hand me my crutches," she remembers her manners. "I have to show you something."

Metal and foam stay solid in my hand as I pass her (_me_) the child-sized crutches. She throws back the quilt, revealing one normal left leg, and a right leg encased in a heavy cast from the knee down. One name is scrawled in black sharpie down the length of her shin; I know it was _important_ because she practiced all three parts on scrap paper before Mom let her have the marker.

_Helena Grace Cambell_. My baby sister wanted to be the first one to sign my cast. So she was. And I will never _ever _tell her she spelled her own last name wrong.

The Girl (_I can't call her by my own name; I'm barely holding it together as it is_) hops in an awkward circle, until she can sit on the floor beside the bed with her legs stuck straight out in front of her. She pulls a black case from underneath the bed and nudges it toward me with her uninjured leg. "I can't reach the zippers all the way around," she admits, scowling at her cast. I tug on the tabs obligingly, even though she (_I_) didn't say please. At her (_my_) direction I hold open the top of the case so she can reach the bow more easily. She frowns in deep concentration as she tightens the stainless steel nut at the end, small fingers brushing a web of white lines that look like a dragon, wings outstretched. She strokes the taut horsehair over the resin block, insisting, "You _have _to do it like this, or it won't sound right. Poppy _said_." She lifts the compact, curving body to her shoulder, and gently pulls the bow across the strings.

It's like listening to whales sing from above the ocean's surface. Tears spill over my lashes unbidden, and there's a bonfire ache in my chest I don't _understand_. It's just noise—incomprehensible, strange, beautiful _noise_. Why do I want nothing more than to _cry_ until I am empty, of everything but this sound? The top of the case flops into my lap as I wrap my arms around my chest and squeeze until it hurts. _Jesus God I've MISSED this—where did this GO—?_

An incongruous splash of white glares against the dark plush at the bottom of the case, pages bound together by a spiral of wire. My heart drops into my stomach like a lump of ash as I lift it, fingers trembling. It wasn't real. It _wasn't_. This cannot _be_.

_And yet—_

I thumb through the pages, breath coming in short, panicky gasps. Each page is a sketch, and each sketch is a moment. I stop at random, and I _live _it again. Every second, every smile, every _impossible _rushes to patch the ragged holes in my _self_. I _remember_. But they can't _both _be real—that _place _and him too—

_No. They can't. _

But my chest—I was coughing up—

_Blood. Exactly. Remember why_.

"Now you try."

I curl my fingers around the neck of the violin. _My _violin. A dark, frenetic melody burns against the pads of my fingers as I slice the dragon bow over the strings. One name howls through me, composing its own song of love and rage and danger—

_Fenris._

Oh God—_Fenris!_

With a rip and a crash, and a sound you'd _feel _if every cell in your body were made of crystal, the song _screams_ across fact and fiction, and shatters them both.


	54. Hero-Swap, the new show from TLC!

The crystalline jigsaw resolves into a jagged mosaic of consciousness. Sensation is rapidly catalogued into touch and sound: a woman's voice hisses sinister gibberish somewhere above my head while a hard surface presses up against the weight of my body. I can move my hands; they are not bound as they were—_wherever_ I was, but loose (_was I released here, and THEN there?_). I brush my fingers over the familiar, dense grain, over the knots in the wood and the softer circles where I never remember to use a coaster. My eyes fly open in alarm: I'm belly-up on my _coffee table_, of all places. I'm in my living room—I'm _home_. I've _been _home this whole time. That _bitch_.

That bitch is kneeling behind my head, spine bowed in exultation as she chants in harsh Tevinter, a knifepoint aimed at my heart.

_Your instincts won't save you_, Fenris once warned me. Bull-fucking-shit they won't. I roll—_instinctively_—as her chant reaches a screaming crescendo, and she drives the dagger home with a force that would have parted muscle and bone like the prow of a warship through calm water, had I actually been there. But I'm not. I'm already on my feet when the _thunk _of metal on wood startles her out of her trance. Her glacier-blue eyes pop open in surprise and annoyance, and find _me_, exactly where she doesn't expect me to be.

"Hi," I snarl. My fist snaps across her face with an _immensely _satisfying snap of bone and cartilage. She rocks backward, whimpering, and lands splayed on her back with her neck bent against the dresser where someone keeps his clothes. Her eyes roll towards the back of her head like marbles, and she slumps.

A giggle of hysteria bubbles from my lips. Something ominously fluid rattles in my lungs, and I drop to my knees, tasting blood. "Hadriana, I presume," I wheeze to the magister's limp form. I roll onto my back, chuckling wetly. I've just punched out a _magister_, in my _living room_, after snapping out of a nightmare _she _created for me. I'm still dressed in just the oversized hoodie, I'm surrounded by slavers' corpses, _and _I am about to die, drowning on dry land. _Why _can't I stop _laughing_?

I squeeze my eyes shut against a spasm of pain, opening them again as soon as it passes. I spent too long with them closed. I'm free—it's better to go eyes wide open. It has to be, or there's no way I'll be able to face what comes next.

_Fenris—I'm so sorry—_

My ears pop, abrupt in the deepening silence. A solid boot lands beside my head with a soft thud. Two blunt fingers tap against my neck, seeking my weakening pulse under the skin. Glass clinks against my teeth as a bottle is pressed to my lips. My mouth fills with lemongrass and henna and dirt, and I cough on the rush of liquid on my tongue. Gloved hands hoist me into a half-sitting position, and I find myself cradled against leather and skin and—_chest hair_. A _lot _of chest hair.

"Hurry up and do your thing, Blondie—"

"I'm trying, but there's not enough—wait, _there!_"

Blue-white light washes over me, covering me like a blanket. My whole body begins to tingle, starting with my fingertips and spreading inwards toward my core. The death-rattle of blood in my lungs miraculously begins to ease; I curl one hand around the bottle and gulp greedily.

"That's it—down the hatch."

I blink fuzzily, unable to bring my rescuer's features into focus beyond a general impression of a heavy jaw liberally shadowed with stubble. It probably _says _something about the way my night (_my life_) has been going that I am less surprised to see _him_, in the flesh,than I am to see him instead of anyone else. He smirks, full-lipped mouth twisting towards eyes the color of honey. "Varric Tethras at your service, milady," he introduces himself, nodding deeply in an approximation of a courtly bow.

I've punched out a magister, in my living room. I've fought through the Fade. I'm surrounded by slavers' corpses, I _was _about to die, and Varric Tethras just called me _milady_. I'm not even wearing _pants_. No _wonder _I can't stop laughing. "Erin Campbell, at yours," I snort back. I push myself off his lap, gasping sharply when my injuries vehemently protest.

"Easy, sweetheart." A strong hand steadies me as my vision spins, preventing me from toppling face first into the feathered pauldron covering his shoulder. "You aren't fully healed yet." We haven't been formally introduced, but—"

"I know who you are," I quickly interrupt him; this is weird enough without it getting weird _and _awkward. "Um. Nice to see you again."

Claws click and scrabble across the hardwood floor with the telltale rhythm of a canine limp. I scramble to my feet, trying not to slip in pools of congealing blood (_I'm not freaking out why would I be freaking out are you freaking out of course not so I'm not freaking out—_). Scooter trembles against my leg; I kneel beside her and bump my hand against the crossbow bolt stuck in her side. "You're a good dog," I murmur, stroking my palm over her snout. "Anders, can you—?"

"I'll try," he promises, hands already suffused with blue-white light.

"Shit—was that mine?" Varric asks, amiable expression momentarily darkening with contrition.

I shake my head distractedly. "It was that guy's," I assure him, jerking my chin at a corpse no different from the other half-dozen scattered over the floor. "_That_, on the other hand, was yours."

He follows my gaze to the bolt still solidly embedded in my wall, surrounded by dry-erase facts and figures. "Not one of my better shots," he remarks.

Anders stands, the glow fading from between his fingers. "I've done what I can," he tells me, tone laced with regret. "There isn't enough magic left in the air to draw from. If we could get you to my clinic—"

A muffled groan from the floor cuts him off, and I shake myself back into gruesome reality. There are bigger, _other _pressing matters afoot that require immediate attention. Like _pants_.

The ambush left the bedroom relatively untouched. I test the switch to the overhead fan, encouraged when light immediately floods the cluttered room. My glasses are still on the nightstand; my surroundings are brought into sharp relief as I hurriedly push them onto my face. A navy blue button down is draped carelessly over the arm of the desk chair; a pair of black pants lays on the floor beside a crumpled black dress, removed in a hurry. Tangled sheets and pillows kicked to the floor bear witness to something passionate. Something _recent_. There were _two _people in this room, in this bed. I was one of them. And the other—

I duck into the closet and quickly wiggle into my favorite pair of Levis and a deep-sky-blue tank top I _definitely _didn't buy just because it's Fenris's favorite color. Metal and leather rattle together, disturbed by my acrobatics; I jerk my foot out of the way barely in time to avoid a clawed gauntlet as it topples to the floor.

A tightness that has nothing to do with my half-mended ribs squeezes through my chest and into my throat. Tears burn under my glasses, and I all but slam the closet door behind me. He's trickled back in bits and pieces; here, with his minty-static musk still clinging to the sheets, in _our _place, among _our _things, he's a flood.

Fenris is _real_. He's _been _real this whole time.

_I'm not crazy_.

"You'd better get in here," Anders warns quietly from the doorway. "She's awake."

_Yet. _I'm not crazy _yet_. I nod, scrubbing the damp trails from my cheeks with the back of my hand. The tears solidify into a lump of salt and ice in the pit of my stomach, and I take a deep breath. _When this is over. I'll cry when this is over._

Varric holds Hadriana hostage, Bianca (_come on, like she needs any other introduction_) drawn to a tautness I could probably make sing if I thought he'd let me near her. I slip around him to perch on the edge of the coffee table, putting my back to the dagger meant for my heart. The magister glares at me with thinly-veiled contempt. That dark well of hysteria threatens to bubble over again, and I feel the corners of my mouth pull towards my ears. I don't feel right calling it a smile. You smile when you're happy, and I'm fairly certain _this _isn't happy. "I'm going to ask you a question," I start.

"How _dare _you!" she demands. "I am a magister of the Tevinter Imperium—"

"You're on your back in a pool of blood with a gorgeous crossbow held to your throat," I cackle. "'Magister' means dick-all."

"D'you hear that, Bianca?" Varric croons. "Even she knows you're gorgeous."

"So let's start again," I continue, as if he hadn't spoken. "I have a question. You're going to answer it."

"You think your dwarf frightens me?" she scoffs.

"Not a bit." My expression feels frozen in a grimace, and a black gratification spreads through me when Hadriana shifts nervously. "But I will. I don't want money, I don't want power. And I know four words that will make your bargain worthless."

"What bargain?"

"_I know about Varania_." She blanches as though I'd raised my fist to her, pale eyes widening in true appreciation of just how _fucked_ she is, and I smirk. "_That _bargain."

Hadriana's gaze flicks between Anders and Varric, trying to decide which poses the greater threat, before settling on me. The ingratiating smile looks strange on her narrow face, too large for a countenance more accustomed to contempt. I doubt she's any happier with the situation than I am. "What do you wish to know?" she asks tremulously.

I bare my teeth at her, feeling predatory and vicious in the face of this small victory. Weaponless, motionless, defenseless me, and I'm still scarier than a possessed apostate and a dwarven marksman. "Where was Fenris taken?" I demand.

"Through the gap," she answers readily.

_Walked into that one_. "And after that?"

"Danarius plans to return to Tevinter," Hadriana replies after a moment's careful thought. A ghost of a sneer curls her lip. "Fenris will be a slave once more."

_Over my dead body_. Nevermind the fact that not even half an hour ago, that was a very real possibility. I will skip into the ninth circle of Hell and feed the Devil from the palm of my hand before I let that happen. "When?" I snarl quietly.

Her sneer returns in full force. "You'll never find him in time."

My cold, wolfish smile never wavers. I have what I need. "Watch me."

"So, is there a plan?" Varric asks sotto voice, moving aside to let me pass. "Be nice if there was a plan."

"Not as such, no," I hedge. "Just—gimme a minute."

"What a surprise," he mutters.

I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging on the roots. I need time to think, to sort through the scant information Hadriana has deigned to give me. So what do I know?

_There's a revolving door in the living room—_

Knew that already.

_It's gotten bigger. A LOT bigger—_

Knew that too—wait. "How did you two get here?" I ask, turning sharply toward Varric.

"We followed her," Anders replies as he ties a bandage into a tidy knot around Scooter's midsection. "The _archdemon _could have followed her trail through the Veil, the hole _she_ ripped open."

"How'd she do that?"

"'She' is a magister," Hadriana reminds me, smirking from the floor. "I will never reveal—"

"Blood magic," Anders explains succinctly, ignoring her. "We—_all _of us—we've been looking for a key. She used a battering ram."

So, now I know that a magister has completely obliterated my private revolving door to and from some random point on the Wounded Coast (_Kirkwall, the Free Marches, Thedas, Crazy Town, Planet Earth questionable_). I know that Fenris is gone. I know I don't have very much time to find him. I don't know _enough_—

_You know more than that. Focus. What did she __**say**__?_

Danarius plans to return to Tevinter. Fenris will be a slave again (_over my dead body_). I'll never find him in time. That's what she said. That's _all _she said.

_She told you everything. What more do you need?_

Danarius plans. Fenris will be a slave. Danarius _plans_. Fenris _will _be. Danarius hasn't left, _yet_. Fenris isn't a slave, _yet_. He was taken through the gap—my revolving door. Which means he has to go through—

Varric eyes me closely, concern softening the blunt features. "You okay, Smiley?"

The air shivers in and out of my lungs as I draw in a deep breath, ignoring the painful twinges of reproof from my splintered ribs. Those can wait. "I have to get to Kirkwall," I gasp.

"The gap cannot be crossed," Hadriana cackles triumphantly. "He is lost to you, she-wolf. You are as likely to fly."

"_Ooohh,_" I growl, "how little you know." Anders flattens himself against the kitchen table as I dive into the bedroom, and pull my violin case out from under my bed. Instincts again—hunches aren't really my thing. But I don't have time to think this out further. I pluck each string with my thumbnail: G, D, A, and E each sing with aching clarity. I whip the bows from the navy-blue plush case and thrust the normal one through my belt loop as though it were a sword. I tighten the nut on the dragon bow; I'm probably imagining that it feels hot in my hand.

"What should we do with her?" Anders asks urgently.

_Christ_. I thought I'd have at least another hour or so before I had to make one of _those _decisions. "Bring her," I command indifferently, grinding the top layer of resin to powder with the nut. "Her fate is not my call."

"Um—what are you doing?" Varric asks curiously.

"No idea," I shoot back breezily. That howling song is rising again; I tap a beat against my thigh, and pull the dragon bow across the strings. It starts with a scream; I press one finger down on the E string and slide it up the neck toward the scroll. My joints flex, loose and relaxed, as the song takes its shape in the spaces between my fingers. The world seems to tilt and warp, and the push-pull in the air around me begins to build. It's probably a sign I need to reorganize my priorities that I think that's a _good _thing. The space within the masking tape square _ripples_; Scooter glues herself to my leg in trembling confusion as the scents of salt and sea and _other _mingle with _here_.

Of all the times to just _be right_. Without allowing myself too much time to think about it, I step forward, throwing myself on the mercy of—shit it's probably too late to use the bathroom—

It feels like walking through clay. Raw. Gritty. Abrasive. _Exhausting_. Senses blend, switching places until I'm tasting music with my ears while my eyes press the strings against the violin's neck. My song falters as I choke on liquid air—what _is _this—oh Jesus no I won't go back I can't go back _I'm not crazy—_

A slender-fingered hand balls into a fist in the back of my tank top, and _yanks_. I tumble out of clay into clear night air and coarse sand. I'm so grateful to be right-side _breathing _I don't even mind it's getting into my mouth. Scooter pokes a wet nose in my ear, whimpering and slurping her tongue across every inch of my face not pressed into the ground. I close my hand around my violin, habitually straightening my crooked glasses as I struggle to right myself. _I don't. Fucking. Be-LIEVE it—_

Deep-sky-blue eyes hold an echo of my own incredulity. Her ink-black hair stirs erratically in the stiff breeze whipping off the ocean. Pale skin glows orange in the last cast by strategically placed torches, shadowing the smooth features that laugh or frown or snarl at the touch of a button, grinning now because the only alternative is to stick her head under the sand and for it—for _me _to go _away_—

"Marian Hawke," she introduces herself shakily. "Welcome to Kirkwall."


	55. New Quest: The Girl With the Fiddle

"Well, Wounded Coast, technically," Hawke corrects herself. Her staff brushes against the back of her robes with a soft _swish_ of wood and fabric as she grasps my hand and hoists me to my feet. "Are you all right?"

_Well, barring the obvious—_. I crouch, groping in the sand for my violin and the dragon bow. I may not know exactly how they _work_, but I know for _damn _sure I don't want anyone _else _finding them. "I think so," I answer hesitantly.

"No, you're not," Anders counters immediately, swiftly advancing on me with hands aglow. "Hold still."

Icy-warm tingles concentrate in my chest cavity. Did I think I knew the human body? My knowledge is _paltry_, compared to this. I can feel my _cells _multiplying, repairing the insults done to my lungs, to my bones. It would take _weeks _of "taking it easy" for this kind of damage to heal on its own. _This _is magic? _This _is what everyone is so worked up about? _This_—this is _awesome_! I think he's even scrubbed out the semester I tried being a smoker. Hot _damn _do I feel healthy! "Thanks!" I exclaim brightly, _really _smiling this time. I'm leapfrogging from one moment to the next; for _this _moment, I feel more like _me _than I have since the storm woke me.

Anders's mouth twitches wearily, and he crouches to do the same for my dog (_who immediately begins a game of chase with Hawke's mabari_). "Don't make a habit of this, all right?"

"Hawke have you got any rope?" Varric interrupts, goading Hadriana forward with the butt of his (_gorgeous_) crossbow. Hawke digs a length of coarsely-woven hemp out of her pack and tosses it to him; Hadriana's expression is a brittle mask of outrage as Varric binds her hands in front of her. He turns to me expectantly—_me, Erin_. "_Now _what do you wanna do with her?" he wants to know.

Footsteps in the sand temporarily stave off the need for any immediate reply. "Did you get there in time?" a breathless, chirping voice wants to know. "Did you find them? Were they all right?" A willow-slender shape steps into the torchlight, green-gray eyes darting hurriedly from one face to another. "_Aneth ara_," she adds when her gaze finds me. "I'm so sorry about—"

"It's okay," I assure her hurriedly (_so it WAS real_); again with the awkward introductions. "Erin Campbell."

"We were halfway too late," Varric explains seriously. "Where's Rivaini got to?"

An odd look flits through Hawke's expression: anger and hurt quickly buried beneath a wry not-smile almost identical to mine. "Charming my brother out of the Gallows," she answers with a forced nonchalance. "Or bribing Maraas. Whichever works—Hundur, _down_." The darkness in the crystal-clear gaze disappears as she scolds the mabari without missing a beat, and returns her attention to me. "You're here, and you brought _her_." She nods at Varric's—_my_ captive. "Does that mean you have a plan?"

"Find Fenris, don't die," I answer glibly, ticking off points on my fingers. "Keeps things flexible."

Hawke blinks. "It needs a little work," she remarks blandly, but a smile threatens to burst through the seams of her carefully blank expression. Hundur plops into a contented, half-reclining sit at her feet, and she scratches his ears with an absentmindedness familiar to any and every dog person. "Any idea where Fenris might be?"

Nervously I tap my bow against my leg, all too aware of the scrutiny aimed my way. Hot panic beats against the inside of my stomach with big black wings, threatening to take flight. Not so long from now, these people will be _legends_. In taverns, in alleys, in Chantry and Circle, this story—_Varric's _story will spread (_or has it, and I'm already IN it?_). And they're all looking at _me_? This is getting _really _fucked up, _really _fast. And there's a tinny ringing in my ears that _will not _go away. "Danarius has him somewhere in Kirkwall," I begin uncertainly. I try to work my jaw surreptitiously; I try all the tricks passengers pass down from one airplane flight to the next to get their ears to pop. I probably only succeed in making myself look utterly ridiculous. Is it like this for _all _non-mages? Or is it just me—

"You'll nev-er find him."

It's Hadriana's voice, but without her familiar, glacially haughty tone. It's transformed into a taunting, split-toned sing-song that can't mean _anything _good. I've seen _The Exorcist_. "Varric, let go of the rope and walk away," I warn him quietly. I tighten my grip on the dragon bow, readying my left hand for the first note of the only song I've definitively proven _does _anything. "Hadriana?"

"You'll nev-er find him," she repeats, and focuses a pale-eyed, rabid grimace on me. "Little wolf's awake now. _You'll nev-er find him—"_

"She's turning," Hawke says flatly. Gone is the human, only slightly-larger-than-life woman who helped me off the sand, whose only brother is a Templar and that has to hurt _so damn much_. She's wearing her Champion's mask, even if no one besides me calls it that yet. She clenches a fist around her staff; power—real, raw _power _gathers around her, and the ringing in my ears worsens. "She's giving in."

I try to argue, "She hasn't yet—" _oh God Jesus I'm not ready for this—please don't make me—_

Hadriana draws her bound hands to her abdomen; she pulls a dagger from the sash at her waist—_seriously did NO ONE think to frisk her oh right she's MY prisoner that was MY job this is all my fault—_

"No—_don't—_!" I'm not sure who shouts, as the magister plunges the blade through her diaphragm. Maybe we all do. Hadriana's flesh ripples and distorts; her robes tear and her skin turns itself inside out to make room for the distorted bulge of grossly exaggerated muscles. The rope around her wrists snaps against the force of her inhuman strength like a mere thread. Fingers become claws, and she—_it_—shakes the rope from its hands, leaving it limp and useless as a dead snake. One eye is concealed beneath a web of pink, stretched flesh; the other focuses on me with a stare so full of malicious _nothing_ I forget to be cynical about religion and begin to chant a Hail Mary. I was taught from the baptismal font to revile this, never _ever _believing I would actually have to _face _one

Hawke and the others spring into action, and I realize I'm still frozen to the spot with a fear so deep it's going to get me killed if I don't—

"_Move, _Smiley!" Varric shouts, and I dive to one side as the Hadriana-thing charges. Impact knocks the breath from my lungs with a bone-jarring _whoosh_. My violin slips from my grasp as I lay on my stomach, dazed. _Is it ALWAYS like this—?_

The abomination roars; my ears pop (_fucking finally_) as strange-familiar, hood-and-lantern shapes burst from holes in the world, and all thought not dedicated to ensuring I don't fucking _die _becomes irrelevant. For a horrible moment I'm afraid I've broken my ribs again. The monster skids to a halt in the sand and whirls, screaming, and broken ribs are the _least _of my problems. Varric forces the onslaught of shades into clusters of two and three, while the three mages rain down indiscriminate destruction that wreaks havoc with my internal—_current_, for lack of a better word. Fire and ice and arcs of lightning—such a maelstrom as this just _does not happen. _My body knows this; it tries to keep up with the conflicting dangers in ways that rip through the last four million years or so of evolution and ends up just making me nauseous.

I flip to my back and force the air in and out of my paralyzed lungs. The heated din of battle fades into silence, as the creature and I stare each other down across an arena of shadow and torchlight. I chance a quick glance around my immediate surroundings, hoping to catch someone's—_anyone's _attention. I'm lost, I'm scared, and I am in all ways the wrong _person _for this. But no one notices.

The abominations snarls—for a thing without any mouth to speak of, I suppose it's a smile. I know it, and It knows I know it. "_Mad little girl, lost all alone in the dark," _it taunts me monstrously. _"Where oh where has her little wolf gone?"_

Hawke disappears behind a wall of shades, her staff a blur of crackling light. Varric shouts, aiming and firing Bianca with a haste that's almost frantic. Scooter and Hundur weave through legs and smoke, barking and snarling (_and whimpering, in guess-who's case_). Anders's eyes are pools of blue flame as Justice's burn licks hungrily over his robes. Merrill snarls like a cat, cornered and fierce, blood dripping slowly from the hand not holding her staff. They're—they're _losing_. They're losing, and I'm completely on my—

_ Little wolf's awake now_.

Awake. _"I'm afraid I'll_—"

Joy and relief pour over me in a violent cascade, sluicing away the deep-rooted fear. I prop myself up on my elbows as my breathing returns to normal. I meet the abomination's cunning, _evil _ stare without flinching, and _smile_—an honest-to-God, shit-eating, I-know-something-you-don't-know grin that always worked on my siblings like a red flag on a bull. I've figured it out.

I know _exactly_ where Fenris is_._

As far as unexpected goes, I think I just threw it for a loop. Sure, it's strong—incredibly, _impossibly _strong and if I think too hard about those claws catching my skin any semblance of courage will puff out like a candle—but it's slow. It's actually pretty stupid. It's _mad_. And it does exactly what I'd expect slow, stupid and mad to do (_I do have an older brother, after all_).

The attack breaks down in my head, quarter-note footsteps lining up against the larger symphony of battle that surrounds us. I tap the sand with one finger to keep time; eighth- and sixteenth-notes fill in the space around the abomination's heavy footfalls. If I'm quick (_not to mention fucking lucky_), those in-between beats will have enough room for me.

We take the first beat in perfect unison: a monstrous foot hits the sand as I draw my right leg into my chest as far as it will go. Then I explode into motion. My leg gathers momentum and crunches solidly against the abomination's knee, locked for balance as its other leg prepares to take the next step. I roll away from its inevitable fall and snatch my violin out of the sand, and am on my feet before this _atrocity _even hits the ground. I jab sharply with my left hand; shock reverberates down the violin's neck as the scroll connects with the monster's temple.

"Hey diddle-diddle, bitch," I growl. The dragon bow makes a noise like nails on a chalkboard as I inelegantly saw against the strings with it. My foe _squeals_, and claps its hands over where its ears should be. I lunge forward, leaning all of my weight into the foot I press to its throat. The circle of shades around Hawke breaks and scatters. Some flee; others slither hungrily forward to investigate this new threat. I stutter the bow across my strings, my fist choking the violin's neck and generally making the most god-awful _racket _I can—oh Jesus this is never going to work in time—

The first slash of a shade's claws is a sharp twist of agony through my consciousness. I don't budge; I keep pushing down with all my might against the abomination's throat. It's all over for _all _of us if I move. The unnatural storm crackles and frosts over my head, banishing the shades one by one, while Bianca sings closed the gaps in the dying around me. Anders heals my injuries with a _whoosh _of light and magic that leaves my skin feeling strangely itchy. But I don't budge. I _never _budge. I keep pushing; I keep making the ugliest, _nastiest _noise ever imagined, because I _don't know what else to do_.

The monster's struggle weakens under my heel. Something cracks and gives way; I stumble away from it as it gurgles a final time. I've just made my first kill. I've _killed_—oh Jesus this was a _person _not even five minutes ago—

Silence descends over the battlefield as Merrill picks off the last of the shades, and everyone takes stock of who remains standing. Anders makes me stand still while he checks me over (_but only after he's checked over Hawke first_), but seems satisfied with his quick work earlier. Varric and Hawke banter over the carnage, acting for all the world as though this is normal—and the worst part, it _is _normal. It _has _to be, if you live this life and want even the smallest chance of being able to face your reflection and still call yourself human—

"Smiley?" Varric crosses the sand and peers closely at me. "You okay?"

My innate decency churns in my stomach and rises through my throat like a wave. I spin on my heel away from him; my savage epiphany burns the roof of my mouth as it lands wetly on the ground between two rocks. My body fights to purge all the _wrongness_ from my system, even long after the meager contents of my stomach have been spilled into the sand. I don't know if I can _stop_.

Something white flashes under my chin, and I grab for it reflexively. The handkerchief is soft in my fingers, and mostly clean. I wipe my mouth with the smallest amount of material I can manage, and (_in accordance with Emily Post's chapter on post-upchuck etiquette_) offer to wash it before I give it back. Varric throws his head back and laughs, and tells me I can keep it—I'll probably need it later.

Hawke's pockets jingle as she bounces toward me. "Well, you've got the 'don't die' part well in hand," she teases. "Though you had me worried for a moment, there. How's the second half coming?"

I want to banter and joke with her, like we didn't just almost die and I didn't just _kill _someone. But fifteen minutes is not a large enough window of time to acclimate to this level of everyday violence, of amazing (_awesome!_) and horrifying things, of magic and murder and digging through the pockets of dead men for a few copper coins and an inexplicable moth-eaten scarf. I don't belong here.

I can't leave without Fenris.

_I know where he is_. "Danarius took him to the mansion," I assert, whistling for Scooter. "How d'you get to Hightown from here?"

"You said he was somewhere in Kirkwall," Anders reminds me, two points behind the curve. "Now he's at the mansion?"

"Walk and talk, Blondie," Varric suggests. "We're on a tight schedule, remember?"

He takes point with Merrill, and we fall into a lopsided triangle behind them. Night deepens around us as we move farther and farther away from the torches. My stomach has grudgingly reduced the threat level from unforgiving nausea to vague queasiness; not gone, but manageable. The sand is cool as it shifts beneath my bare feet—of all the things to forget to bring on an interdimensional joyride, why did it have to be _shoes_? Kirkwall is going to be _disgusting_—

A small hand curls over my shoulder, and I jump. Hawke immediately lets go, fingers splayed in a placating gesture. "Sorry," she says quickly. "And—I'm sorry," she repeats, but the tone is different, graver. "We should've had your back."

"Like you weren't busy?" I snort quietly. My innards roil and pitch with memory, hot and immediate, and I inhale a deep breath of salt and sea through my nose. If I close my eyes I can almost imagine myself at Poppy's. "Does it get easier?" I blurt.

"Eventually," she replies candidly. Her pale features soak in moonbeams, wearing the night like a mask. "And—never." Her hand drops to her side, where Hundur bumps against it with a head the size of a truck. Hawke's lips twitch fleetingly, and she returns from whatever hazy, shadowed place claimed her for that moment. "So, you're sure you know where Fenris is."

"Yup," I chirp, even though it wasn't a question. "Positive."

"Why?"

"Short version?" I grin at her, missing humble only by a narrow margin. "I'm brilliant, I know Fenris, and sadists like Danarius are actually pretty predictable."

"And the long version?" she asks.

"Needs to be told over _lots _of alcohol."


	56. The best plan is one that actually works

I've realized something. As I half-walk, half-jog with Hawke and the others, Scooter and Hunder loping beside us, one thought (_well, two if you count "save Fenris"_) runs circles through my brain.

This place is _huge_.

We reach what I think is the end of the paths on the Wounded Coast—and we _keep going_. Loose sand becomes packed dirt and rough-hewn stone and buildings jammed way too close together, and we just keep moving. Up stairs and down stairs, around tight corners I almost miss, we keep running. All the way through Lowtown, through drunks and thugs and a smell in the air of blood and filth and a population on the raggedy edge of something they don't even realize is coming—we're a pack, and we're on the hunt.

I nearly back into Merrill as a shape peels away from the darkness surrounding the Hanged Man. Moonlight deepens the _blue_ness of the scarves draped around her hips, tied over her hair. It darkens the dusky skin and oceans' swells of hips and bust barely contained by white cloth and corset—_wow, she really DOESN'T wear pants, does she—_

Hawke smirks at me as she makes the introduction. "Erin, Isabela. Isabela, Erin. Any luck?"

Isabela (_THE Isabela!_) shakes her head, making her earrings swing. "Maraas says he's told you he won't work for you, and—Hawke, I'm sorry—"

That lyrium flash of anger and hurt darts across Hawke's expression again. "We're all shocked my brother won't be joining us," she drawls, excessively sarcastic. Something private and awkward ripples through the faces around me like a game of Telephone. For someone fluent in Awkward Family Moment, it means _we don't talk about this, ever_.

Isabela shakes off the gloom first. "So, is there a plan?" she asks, booted stride matching ours as we take the stairs out of Lowtown.

Silence beats pointedly between footsteps, until Varric coughs my name and I realize this is my cue. "Danarius took Fenris to the mansion," I begin with the only thing I _know_ for certain. "I don't know exactly how many he brought with him but I've got about six on my floor at—oh—" Germinating plans wipe out under a crippling wave of nausea, and I have to pause on the top step of the long staircase that leads into the Hightown Market (_and it's weird that that DOESN'T seem all that weird_). I left a fucking _crime scene _at home. I have _corpses _to deal with, oh _God_. Maybe I can pass it off as a _really fucking weird _breaking-and-entering—what cop on planet Earth would buy _that_—?

_Hey. Focus_.

I take a deep breath through my nose (_and kind of regret it_) and blow it out slowly through my mouth. I can do this. I _have _to do this. My eyelids slowly drop as I try to picture the mansion as a real _place_, with rooms and corridors that don't inexplicably just _go away_, and doors you can actually _open_—with a side entrance that doesn't just_ become_ a main foyer for no reason. "There're actually _two _entrances to the mansion, right?" I ask, popping my eyes open again. It never hurts to double check.

Hawke nods definitively (_have I mentioned lately that I REALLY like being right_?); she waits patiently while my half-baked _nothing _of an idea begins to solidify. I hate that I only have _one _idea. I hate that my only idea is also a _terrible _idea. "Hawke—"

"It's all right," she cuts me off quietly. I get the feeling she went there even before I did, and was just waiting for me to catch up. One corner of her mouth quirks upward in a tired, lopsided smile, as though I am one more component in the joke to her punch line. One more part of the story. "This happens a lot, actually."

I get it—I get it better than she does, and it's _hilarious_, in the way that no one is actually laughing. I've _been _her. Now I _need _her. I think that definitely counts as irony.

"Sorry, what just happened?" Merrill asks, glancing quickly between us.

"We're splitting up," Hawke announces. "I'll take one group through the front door to give Erin time to come in from the side entrance."

"I'm with you," Anders volunteers instantly, stepping closer to her. Something warm and strangely familiar flutters between them, as her features soften and his smile actually shows teeth. "Your healing's rubbish."

"Me too," Isabela adds herself to Hawke's team. God it's kickball all over again.

"I'll go with Smiley." I find I live up to my nickname, as Varric shoulders Bianca and falls in step beside me. "Wouldn't miss this," he smirks at me.

"And me," Merrill interjects in that hurried, breathless tone that makes you wonder if she's only just now realized she's _here_.

"Take Hundur," Hawke suggests.

She may as well have offered her firstborn. Frantically I shake my head, trying to stammer a demurral, which she ignores. "He's smart," she states bluntly. "And he's worth his weight in gold in a fight. And yours seems to like him." She grins, pleased as any parent that her child plays well with others. Recollection dawns behind her eyes (_those blue, BLUE eyes_), and she fishes in her pack until she finds what she wants. "I think you lost something."

Very gently I pluck my favorite coffee mug from her hand, tracing the chipped rim with one fingertip. A laugh chokes its way past the lump of tears hardening in my throat. Typical—I lose, Hawke finds, and has _no idea _what it means to me. I grip it by the handle with my free hand, and take a deep breath. "Thanks for holding onto it," I murmur. I unbuckle my belt, and loop it through the ceramic handle._ I can do this._

Metal clanks together in time with an authoritative gait, as we steal past the steps of the Chantry. From the corner of my eye I notice hands drift closer to weapons; my ears begin to ring again in warning as the mages reach through the Veil's malleable boundary. I try to ignore it, flexing the muscles in my throat for relief. Armor flashes in the moonlight, copper and steel gleaming proudly. A thin cord keeps bright red hair out of a pale face dusted with freckles. The square, determined jaw is all business as one hand lifts in wary greeting.

Hawke relaxes, and flashes a winning, little-sister smile. "Out for a stroll, Aveline?"

The Guard-Captain of Kirkwall slowly glances from Hawke's face to mine, with a hard stare the color of emeralds. "It's happening, isn't it," she states flatly.

Hawke's smile fades, and she nods. "Are you in?"

Even the freckles seem to stand at unyielding attention as Aveline replies, "I'm investigating a disturbance in the neighborhood." A smile starts to sneak past the vigilant façade, and she adds, "Serah Marian Hawke complained of noisome intruders at an abandoned Hightown residence."

Isabela snorts while Hawke fills Aveline in on the not-so-genius plan. It doesn't surprise me when she joins Hawke's team; if there's one place I'd want to be when leading a diversionary frontal assault against a magister and an as-yet-unknown number of slavers, it's behind the woman with the shield.

Find Fenris, don't die. We've _got _this.

The moment I see it, I _know _it. Neglect has made a ruin of what was once no doubt an impressive monument of opulence. Tangled threads of ivy stain the cracked masonry with shadows. Broken glass leaves jagged gaps in the windows scattered like pockmarks. Squatting in a corner, drinking in the night like bad wine, sad and _empty_—how could it be anything else?

Hawke stays our advance with an upraised hand, unblinking stare fixed on the shadows moving behind the windows. She points at a square of dark, empty space and jerks her chin at me. I nod my understanding: _this is my stop_. I tighten my fist around the neck of my violin, and step forward when she signals the all-clear. Hawke and Varric put their heads together over their supplies; bottles clink together as potions are redistributed, and with a final _good luck_, Hawke takes her team around the corner and out of sight.

My grandfather was a soldier. I wish I'd thought to ask him what it felt like, to _wait_. If I had, maybe I'd know whether it's _normal_, to not truly feel my heart beat. I'd know whether it's _normal_, to not know whether I'm really breathing, whether the blood in my veins is still moving the way it's supposed to. I'd know whether it's _normal_, to just—_wait_.

I adjust my grip on my instrument, fingers of my left hand already curling in anticipation. _Are you watching, Poppy? Can you even see me?_

A percussive _boom _shatters the silence. Distant battle cries float over the clash of blade and shield. I don't believe a clearer signal than that exists. Scooter's ears perk up sharply, and she growls low in her throat. Hundur bumps her flank with his jowl, and she quiets. I rest the dragon bow against the strings (_damn, I forgot to bring my resin block_), and nod to Varric. He cradles Bianca's stock against his shoulder, and shoves the door open with the ball of his foot.

_Showtime._

Honestly, my first thought is _whoa, it's REALLY dark in here_. You never think about how _bright _an electric-lit night is, until it's _not_. The only light in the room is the feeble cascade of moonlight pouring through a hole in the ceiling. Debris clutters the floor (_none of it sending up convenient clouds of glitter_): benches in various states of disrepair; barrels, crates, and the inevitable cloth sack. I feel vaguely like a bat as I try to sharpen my hearing through sheer force of will, even as my vision struggles to adjust to the almost-impenetrable darkness. I slide my bare feet over the uneven floor (_nope, not thinking about what's ON the floor, nope, nope, nope—_), following the solid sound of Varric's footsteps. _This isn't SO bad, really—_

Merrill shouts a warning, and a not-sound like a shotgun blast shreds the delicate balance of my inner ear. I duck—_instinctively, ha!_—as smoke and claws rip through the air above my head. Bianca spits bolts in quick succession; Merrill grunts purposefully, and the air thickens with the unmistakable smell of blood. I scramble out of the way on my hands and knees, clutching my violin, and feel brave enough to stand only when I can put my back against a wall.

I try to remember all the truly _awful _sounds a violin can make—all the not-notes designed to make anyone's hair stand on end with their _wrong_ness. I flip the dragon bow onto its side and drag the very edge of the horsehair over the strings. The shades scream in otherworldly rage and confusion, as if I've blown an antithetical dog whistle (_and the dogs aren't too pleased, either_). Interesting. I'll have to remember that_—_

The hood-and-lantern heads whip toward me through the darkness, and I brace myself for claws and agony (_man, I just bought this shirt, too_). Merrill's magic swirls around me, leaving an odd almost-taste in my mouth like blood and soil. The shades writhe and twist against some force invisible to my eyes, still screeching (_so much for the element of surprise_). Bianca hisses a final time—a rapid _pffbt-pffbt-pffbt_—and they vanish, returned to the Fade.

It hits me like a bell, clear and hard and irrevocable. _Every room _will be like this. Enemies, violence, and _noise_. Why did no one warn me violence was so _loud_? The floor quivers as distant feet stomp ever closer in a hurry—do I _really _have it in me to do what I just did, to a _person—_?

This is never going to work.

Moonlight cascades gently through a hole in the ceiling. An _actual _hole, in an _actual _ceiling. I stand under it, flipping my chipped mug into the air. It goes up, and comes back down unhindered, and I probably shouldn't feel as _relieved _as I do to discover _gravity _still functions the same way. I cross the room with two quick strides, and try to find the least rot-eaten barrels and crates I can manage.

"Uh—what are you doing?" Varric asks quietly.

_Find Fenris, don't die—all part of the plan_. "Tell me what makes more sense," I puff laboriously, shoving a crate into place under the hole. I nod in the direction of the unseen advance of the next wave of foes, bringing noise and violence and dead giveaway in its wake. "Forward?" I give my (_alarmingly wobbly_) staircase a swift, critical once-over. It'll have to do; we _do not _have time for me to fall apart (_or you know, just FALL_) over childhood fears and broken bones long healed. I don't _feel _like myself at _all _as I turn toward Varric and Merrill with a sly grin, one foot braced against the bottom layer (_it'll hold, it'll hold, it'll hold—_). "Or up?"

Merrill scales first, elven hands and feet nimbly finding purchase. She crawls onto the crumbling rooftop, and calls softly, "It'll hold us!"

All I hear is _no, we probably won't fall through the crumbling roof to a horrible death_.

_Probably _will have to be good enough: the footsteps are getting closer. The makeshift tower sways slightly under Varric's weight. I hold as much of the bottom steady as I can while Merrill pulls him up by his coat. _Two up, me to go—_

Hundur whines interrogatively as I hoist myself up onto the first crate. _Shit! Shitshitshit! _"I really hope you're as smart as everyone says you are," I remark dubiously. I crouch in front of him, taking his huge head in my hands. Intelligent, dog-brown eyes blink placidly into mine. "You're lost, got it?" I tell him firmly. "You're lost, and you and Scooter got in by accident. Let them see you, but don't hang around. Go back to Hawke, once you're out. Understand?"

The mabari barks attentively. I hope to Christ that's dog-speak for _Sure thing, I'm a genius._ "And look after Scooter for me, okay?" My voice quivers ominously—_no no no, I am not about to lose it over the DOG after everything ELSE I've been through tonight_. My pulse stutters in my chest as my feet leave the solid ground once more. My violin _fwongs _in protest as it bangs against the rickety structure; I pass it to Merrill once I'm close enough and wiggle on my belly onto the rooftop.

My stack of rotten wood rocks back and forth, and collapses just as a half dozen slavers crash through the door from the next room. For a long moment, I'm afraid _this _won't work either. The slavers stare at the dogs in derisive bafflement, while Hunder yelps theatrically and charges around the chaos in confounded circles. He shepherds Scooter toward the entrance, shielding her from a half-hearted kick one of the slavers aims at her flank. That dog is getting a fucking _steak_, when this is done—

"_Canae degenerantum_," the kicker sneers dismissively, and leads his fellows back towards Hawke's diversionary skirmish. Holy shit—it _worked_.

_Stupid dog, huh? Smarter than you by half, buddy_.

"You don't _play _around, do you," Varric whistles, once the slavers are out of earshot.

_You have GOT to be kidding me. _I'm on a roof. I'm on a _shitty _roof. I'm on a shitty roof, of my own free will, because I'm supposed to be leading the _sneaky _half of this rescue mission and it was a better plan than noise and violence and I don't even _know _what with the violin. "Puns, Varric?" I drawl, perhaps more sharply than intended but I'm still trying to find the courage to get up off my stomach. "_Really_?"

He shrugs, grinning unrepentantly. "Short notice, y'know. You good?"

_One, two, three—not afraid_. It worries me, that this is getting easier. Very slowly I rise to my hands and knees, and then to my feet. Merrill passes my violin back to me, and I instantly feel just the smallest bit braver as my hand closes around the neck in a grip so tight the strings leave small dents in my palm. I balance my weight on the balls of my feet, and nod to Varric. "We're good."

I try to imagine being weightless, as I lead the way over the rooftop. It isn't so bad, really. It's no different from walking on an outdoor sidewalk—until I accidentally glance through another hole and can see the _actual _floor, ten feet or so beneath me. The bottom drops out of my stomach, and I reflexively lift my gaze toward the sky, breathing hard through my nose.

_Onetwothreenotafraid. _One foot slides tentatively forward. I give the edge of the hole a wide berth, aligning my toes and heels as though I were on a balance beam. _Onetwothreenotafraid_. The gap recedes into insignificance as I lead Varric and Merrill beyond it. _One two three not afraid. One, two, three, not afraid. _

We follow the roof of the first floor, skirting the holes, as it bends in a crooked "C" shape around the second floor. Unnatural light flashes on the other side of the windows overlooking the main hall. Hawke's skirmish rages hotly within; shades and slavers alike clump in bottlenecks on either staircase that leads to the upper story. A man, regally arrayed in robes of gray and white, stands sheltered by the banister at the top. Power limns his skeletal hands with blood and fire; I don't need to see the gray (_really silly-looking_) beard or pale, hooded eyes to know this despicable waste of skin and bone for who—and what—he is. His attention is wholly focused on Hawke. How _easy _would it be, then, to eliminate him now? Varric and Merrill both have the range, and I don't think I'd _mind _terribly, finding out just what this howling song of love and rage can do to this—this _creature_. I don't think I'd _mind_, if I helped him leave this world as bloody and screaming as he entered it—

_Find Fenris. Don't die. This bottom-feeding cretin will wait. _

Hawke would never forgive me (_not to mention I'd never forgive myself_) if any of _her_ people fell because they chose to help _me_. She's already risking more than I have a right to ask of _anyone_, let alone a nearly-complete stranger. I am fundamentally incapable of failing that trust in me—_me, Erin_, no matter how tempted I may be toward something rash. _JESUS. _No wonder she's the hero.

That doesn't mean we should take our sweet time. I practically sprint over the roof above the foyer (_the REAL foyer_), Varric and Merrill hot on my heels. We're opposite where we came in by now, and I'm starting to feel desperate. Hawke and the others can't keep Danarius occupied indefinitely. I can't find my way to the second floor. I have _no idea _what to do once I actually _find _Fenris, and that's assuming I _actually _find him—

I whip sharply around a corner, and my mounting panic sputters before it can fully metamorphose into mental paralysis. The roof here is narrower—I think we're atop the hallway. On my left is a gaping, resolve-testing, you-thought-you-were-over-this-how-cute _hole_ that with one misstep, I could topple into and everything would grind to a tragic end. I swear to God this thing has teeth. But to my right is a wall, its masonry shrouded by thick, climbing vines. A decorative bannister of some sort (_forensics, not architecture—I can't be an expert in EVERYTHING_) follows the top edge, perfect for grabbing and holding onto for dear life, if I can just _get _to it.

_You don't have a choice, if you're serious about the "find Fenris" half of your cunning plan_.

Well, when I put it _that _way.

I thought things couldn't get worse than travelling ten feet above solid ground with only a crumbling surface to rely upon. I was wrong. I pass my violin to Merrill for safekeeping, and gather the vines in one hand. A lifetime of plenty and three square meals a day has ill prepared me for the driving need to scale a wall using only plant life for support. My feet swing through empty air, and _more _empty air, and I squeeze my eyes shut. Vines thread between my toes as I blindly grope for the wall; my knuckles turn white from the mental and physical strain of _letting go_, only to tangle my fists in the greenery higher up. My feet seek out minute irregularities in the wall and find footholds—maybe barefoot wasn't such a terrible idea.

The vines crawl through the posts of the stone bannister, tracing paths too narrow for me to squeeze through. Leaves rustle as I claw for purchase with my feet, while at the same time I let go of the vines one final time and curl my hands around one of the posts. I dangle there for a moment, flatly refusing to whimper in pants-shitting terror. My entire body feels like one muscle as it coils and clumsily springs upward by inches, until I'm standing on the edge of the roof with my hands flat against the top of the bannister. I swing one leg up, and then over, belly flat against the scant inches of stone. My left foot abruptly scrapes against a blessedly flat surface, and I slide off the rail.

My knees threaten to buckle. I plop gracelessly into a cross-legged position, panting. Every fiber of my being trembles; I'm only barely cognizant of Varric and Merrill following my example. I did it. I found a way onto the second floor. I'm _above _the second floor, technically. I _climbed_ up here, and—and this is the really cool part, in my book—_I fucking CLIMBED up here._ There's only one person on planet (_planets?_) Earth for whom I'd conquer a lifelong fear.

_Hang in there, babe_.

I grasp Merrill's hand and help her over the bannister. "Are you certain you've never been here before?" she asks quizzically as she passes my instrument back to me (_damn, how'd she manage that one-handed?_). "Only you seem to know your way around rather well."

Varric's gloved fingers grope for the bottom edge of the rooftop. I grip his wrist to steady him, grateful for the opportunity to sort through the volumes of what _not _to say. "Long version," I try to explain without actually _explaining _anything, as together we hoist him over the stone railing. I _think _I know what I'm looking for; I only hope I'll _recognize _it—

And then I _see _it. To the casual observer, it's simply another hole in the roof (_this really is the shittiest roof in existence_). But to me, it's the hole in _Fenris's _roof—the hole he never fixes, in six-odd years of using only one room in a house full of rooms with holes in the roof. I pause at the edge, and hold my breath as I peer into it. For once, the sensation doesn't bother me—not as much as _not knowing _what awaits me once I drop through it. Because I have to drop through it, or else go back the way we came and waste all this time and effort and a perfectly good diversion.

My toes curl over the edge as if I stood on a diving board. I fill my lungs with cool, night air.

_One. Two. Three—_

In retrospect, I'm _really fucking lucky _the floor doesn't just give out under me. An Olympic landing it is not—it shudders painfully through my legs and up my spine, setting my teeth on edge. I stumble, ankles crossing as I fight to keep my balance. I've landed to one side of the bed I am not certain Fenris ever uses; I lean against its foot and shake the impact out of my feet. It's _quiet _in here, save for the noise of battle raging just beyond the doorway. A fire blazes in the filthy hearth; the uneven light throws the sparsely-appointed chamber into haphazard disarray. Two benches have been pushed close to the flame, as much for light as for warmth. Bottles, both intact and shattered, litter the floor (_barefoot was in fact a TERRIBLE idea_), green glass sparkling dangerously. A long table is propped on its end against the wall—with a lean, warm body I have missed _so damn much _bound spread-eagled between its legs.

_"Fenris!" _I forget fear. I forget danger. I forget blood and gore and violence and noise. I rush forward, mind already racing with how I'm going to get him out. Blood trickles from paper-thin weals etched into his back and into the waistband of his jeans. A purple shadow darkens his cheek on one side of his face, his jaw on the other. The flesh between his markings is bruised almost black, skin torn and scraped, and it's just a hunch, but I'd be willing to bet those ungentle hands left hurts on the inside as well. Slavers' hands. _Magister's _hands.

Varric calls me Smiley. Hadriana named me she-wolf. I think I feel more akin to the latter.

I would swear my course does not waver from one step to the next. I would swear that my intent does not shift. But my ears _scream _a dire warning, and the evil sight before me dissolves before I can lay a hand on him. Merrill and Varric disappear in a stop-motion flash of otherworldly light (_or maybe I'M the one that disappears_). My vision ripples as though it were a wet backdrop splashed with paint thinner. I choke on nothing as the air thickens, as my senses warp and my skin rebels against the invisible grain of the world come undone. The fire still crackles and pops in the hearth. Benches and bottles are still strewn hazardously across the uneven floor. But the table has righted itself. Fenris is no longer bound, no longer a captive. He's sitting at one end, cradling a bottle in one hand, staring blearily into empty space. _What the fu—?_

"He is yet held captive."

I whirl toward the sound of Hawke's voice in the doorway. But it isn't Hawke—it _can't _be Hawke. She's downstairs keeping Danarius busy—right? _Right?_

The deep-sky-blue eyes gleam hungrily as she stalks into the room. "His mind is mine," she hisses sibilantly. She crosses the periphery of my vision, and the fabric of the world shivers. Serpent-like, the creature undulates across the floor, rearing its hood-and-lantern head like a cobra. No half-witted shade, this. Old, _old _hate flares in my chest as the demon puts its head close to Fenris's prone body, bound once again to the table. "Get away from him," I snarl quietly. I know what this is, and it _sickens _me.

It has the unmitigated, hellish gall to _laugh_. Dreams and realities are fluid things; they blend on the demon's palette like paint until everything is twisted and black. Fenris is again seated at one end of the table, spiked armor askew as he tips the bottle to his lips. "I'm not here, wolf-girl," it croons triumphantly. It swims through the wafer-thin space between what _is _and what is _made_, and disappears. "But _you _are."

The tiny hairs scattered across my nape lift like hackles, and I whirl. Fenris remains seated, preternaturally still. Two inhumanly large eyes glare blankly at my face from the smooth, elven features, wolf-green in the glow from the fire. His attention is blatantly predatory; he assesses me with a quick flick of his gaze, coolly weighing strengths and weaknesses. I keep still. I am not taken in by his motionlessness—he could be upright and on me in the amount of time it would take me to blink. The only things that move are the tears that slowly spill over my lashes, as his head turns dismissively away from me and he growls, "_Eg' somnaeat._"

His clipped Tevinter slurs, and I catch myself wondering just how much wine he thinks he's had. My heart shudders in my chest like a crystal on the verge of fracture, even as the demon's trap springs closed on us both. The flames in the hearth dance hypnotically, and I can see the _other _Fenris, in the _other _this-room. I straddle two realms, both _completely _real, with a _completely _real Fenris in each one, because that's just the way it _works _here. And I have to free them _both_. "Technically you're right, I guess," I answer in remote, deadened tones that don't sound like mine. "But you're not _just _dreaming."

Fenris rolls the neck of the bottle between his thumb and forefinger. Firelight refracts chaotically through the spinning glass, sending pinpricks of light darting over the floor. "One dreams, or one is awake," he argues indifferently. "I am awake." He lifts his eyes to mine, and such a despair of yearning I find in them that it ices me from the inside out. "You look like her. You sound like her." He shoots to his feet, and has both my wrists trapped in one long-fingered hand before I can raise a defense (_now that's just embarrassing_). The _other _Fenris groans quietly, hanging limply by his bonds, while _this _Fenris buries his cheek in my hair and inhales raggedly. _"Futis—_you even smell like her. But you're not her. There _is _no 'her'." He shakes me loose with an inarticulate, guttural noise of disgust. "_Ego sum vigilantibus, somniella_," he sneers. "Leave me."

"No." The flat refusal echoes like a shout in the wake of his deceptively intimate assault. I fold my arms over my chest and meet him glare for glare. I've gotten pretty good at it, over the last six months.

"I said _leave me!_" he roars, and charges the narrow distance between us.

Once I might have retreated. Once I might have flinched. But not today. Today I stand my ground. Today I wait until he has committed himself too fully to the advance. Today I slide one foot between his, and twist my hip around the outside of his thigh. Today I control our fall to the dirty floor littered with glass fragments, his wrists pinned under my hands. Today his hurt and rage evaporate, as the fiery glare dims into a mossy-soft glow of shock and something too wary and disbelieving to be called _hope_.

"And I said no," I retort calmly. Truth sings through my fingers, tapping of their own volition against his pulse. I feel the hard lumps of salt and ice within me soften, and even though it is _entirely _the wrong moment for it (_or maybe it's the perfect moment, and the wrong Fenris, or it's the perfect moment and the RIGHT Fenris_), a tender smile curls my lips toward the corners of my eyes. "D'you wanna know why I love you?" I murmur. _Did I just—?_

A _yes, do tell _shimmers behind his eyes. "Why do you love me?" he asks, searching my face with a wild wonder.

_A-yup. I did just. _

Go. Fucking. Figure.

"Because loving you is _music_," I hiccup. I uncurl one hand from around his wrist, and brush the white forelock out of his face with my fingertips, taking care to avoid the pointed, ticklish tips of his ears. Might as well do this right.

I press my lips to his before I can remind myself how _childish _it seems. The two Fenrises sigh in tandem, as a white-hot haze sears the illusory room into tatters. One disappears from beneath me, leaving only the Fenris bound to the upended table. No traps await me this time, as I scramble to my feet and cup his face in my palms. His eyelids flicker, bloody and swollen lips forming the shape of my name. "I love you, Fenris James FitzBhanna," I whisper fiercely, and my lips burn anew as I kiss him again. "And if you've been paying attention at _all_, you knew that already."

A voice warmed by countless hours of stories and whiskey coughs across the moment's golden surface. I spin hurriedly, flushing with embarrassment and fists clenched for danger (_of all the times to be caught sucking face, in the middle of a rescue mission is probably THE worst possible_). Varric glances from my face to Fenris's, interest gleaming brightly in the gold-brown gaze, and he smirks. "So, what'd we miss?"


	57. Love and War and Lyrium

"Can that maybe _wait_?" I ask, straining politeness through a screen of unbridled, reckless joy and desperate anxiety. "We're kind of _busy _here." I stand on tiptoe, hissing an oath as a fingernail bends backwards against the tight knots binding Fenris's hands to the table's legs. I'm no slouch when it comes to smarts (_speaking pretty modestly, I think_), but I have absolutely _no idea _what the next step is. Find Fenris? Check. Don't die? So far, check. Escape plan?

I always forget _something_.

Fenris is in _no shape _to go out the way we came. I'm not sure _I _am in any shape to go out the way we came. One come-to-Jesus moment with my oldest fear is enough for one day, thank you. But fighting our way out the _other _way isn't really an option either. One of the ropes around Fenris's wrist slips free, and his arm drops limply to his side. My fingernails shred against the rough hemp fibers as I struggle with the other knot. I've forgotten something _else_—something important and _dangerous_—

"_You have robbed me of my prey, wolf-girl_." The demon's protest roars through my senses like a tectonic upheaval of the psyche. Hawke would have said something witty. I just start swearing as I realize my violin is nowhere _near _my hand, occupied as I was tearing the Fade apart for the man I love. Merrill cries out to her gods in alarm. Bianca whistles into the shadows and hits only vapor. The sound of pencil-thin wood clattering uselessly to the floor is probably the most discouraging I've ever heard. The snakelike body twists closer through the air; it dismisses the Merrill's and Varric's attacks as mere annoyances, focusing instead on me (_and how am _I _the scariest thing in the room?!_). I stand my ground with my fingers clenched into lethal fists, shielding Fenris with the meager strength of my body. It _looks _solid enough to hit—maybe if I go for the eye-head—

"Smiley! _Catch!"_

I just _barely _avoid getting clocked in the head as Varric shot-puts my violin through the air, dragon bow arcing gracefully behind it like a spear. I scoop them out of gravity's reach, fingers of my left hand reflexively curling into notes (_that actually works in real life? Cool!_). It's _different_ from the _other _song, as different a passion as love from hate. It still screams—and the demon halts, stunned, as though I'd landed a heavy blow. It still howls—and the demon spins in circles in confusion. But this is not rage, as was the other.

This is _triumph_.

Merrill readily takes advantage of the demon's growing desperation. Vine-green tendrils of raw power coil in snares at the demon's feet (_or where feet would be, if it had feet_) and constrict like vipers. I grind notes out of my instrument with happy malice, as Varric fires bolt after bolt at the creature's head. We've _so _got this—

Something heavy and intangible cracks against the back of my skull. I drop instantly, spotlights exploding between my eyes and my glasses. My violin spins from my fingers across the floor and bumps against the hearth. Fear slowly blossoms in my breast as first Merrill, then Varric falls silent, and the chaos of _noise _above me abruptly ceases. _What's happening—oh God I have to know what's happening open your eyes Erin OPEN YOUR EYES NOW—_

I throw myself onto my back, popping my eyes open as wide as they'll go. Long robes shimmer in the firelight from gray to blue and back again. An iron-gray beard conceals the sunken flesh on his face only poorly. Pale eyes stare coldly over high cheekbones, surveying me without malice, without anger, without _anything_. He merely _stares _at me, head tilted to one side. _Death _has a warmer, more human smile than the one profaning this man's thin lips. "And just what are _you_, I wonder?" he hums thoughtfully, as if mostly to himself.

I'll admit—up close, he _is _kind of intimidating.

Wood and rope groan with strain as Fenris jerks free from his remaining bond. "Don't you touch her, Danarius!" he shouts, features contorting with helpless rage. "Don't you _fucking _touch her!"

Danarius ignores his former slave (_I really, REALLY __**HATE **__that word_), other than a brief, cold glance. "Stand up, pet," he bids me. Perversity and bravado, obstinacy and ice-black rage are forgotten as I obey, quite without meaning to. "You are biddable," he observes approvingly. I would vomit on his shoes from pure spite, if I wasn't so bone-deep scared he's going to _touch _me. "You will serve me."

My heart pounds a red-white-and-blue, snare drum march in my chest, and ultimately dies into instinctive submission in the face of the magister's authoritative arrogance. With deliberate patience, one white claw lifts to my cheek in an absurd mockery of tenderness. My head snaps toward it. My teeth close on something small and foul, and my jaw clenches. Danarius tears his hand away from my face, shouting wordlessly in surprise and outrage. Knuckles crack against my temple as his stinging slap teals the satisfaction out of my small triumph. "I will break you of _that _soon enough," he hisses with lethal promise.

_You can try, worm_. Nice to know my inner voice has no sense at all of self-preservation—

"Shut your mouth, Danarius!" Fenris snarls. "Shut your mouth, and let her go."

Annoyance flickers momentarily in the wintry gaze. "The word is 'master'," he clips out. "Or perhaps you need another lesson."

The air pushing out of my lungs is forced backwards as Danarius closes long fingers around my throat. Roughly he spins me in his arms, until Fenris and I are face-to-face. "Kill her for me, little wolf," the magister purrs, almost negligently. Such an almighty evil lurks in those words I will never again doubt the existence of hell. "Your master commands it."

Another lesson. _Another. Lesson. _

It's not that my excruciating headache goes away. It's not that he stops being a threat. It's not that the past few hours (_and the still-ambiguous stretch of time before that_) have not taken their toll. It's not that fatigue and stress and uncertainty are not still swirling in my chest. But something inside me _snaps_, in a way I did not know was possible, and I just stop _caring_.

Fenris's eyes widen. A tremor of apprehension rocks my newfound resolve at the slash-and-burn play between resistance and resignation warring in the beloved green depths. But I cannot let this man—this _waste _of skin and bone and breath be _right_. Not today. So I meet my lover's eyes with a small, secret smile meant just for _us_. The Tevinter words snap off the tip of my tongue, as I roll my shoulders against Danarius's torso and he yanks me against him to keep me still. "_Tertio felitae_."

Fenris's expression hardens in disbelief. I hold my breath against the possibility that he won't understand. Then the firelight shifts in his black pupils, as his eyes nod. "_Don't. Move._"

Here's hoping I'm always right—

It's hot. It's cold. It is an invasive spear of numbing absence so profound every molecule in my body freezes, all energy bent on identifying this new danger. Danarius gurgles in my ear as Fenris reaches past my spine and closes his fist around the magister's heart. Every ounce of sense I still possess screams for me to run, to leave this ugly struggle of magic and blood and lyrium far behind. But I don't move. Fenris told me not to move. I _have _to trust he knows what he's talking about.

Ghostly fingers clench. Spectral muscles bunch with impossible effort. My internal current shoves back with all its might against the minute disturbance, and my mouth drops open in a silent scream of protest. Fenris aims an acid-blue scowl of hate and concentration over my head, as he slowly crushes his hated tormentor's heart between his fingers. I imagine this is probably easier with the gauntlets on—

_This is killing you_.

Worth every minute.

I _feel _Danarius's heart finally give way with a hideous, gristly _pop_. "_You are no longer my master_," Fenris snarls with hot finality. He slowly draws his arm out of me, and the corpse drops, crumpled as a rag doll.

It's _over_.

An eerie silence descends, less an absence of sound than it is a sense of the air around me holding its breath. The inside-out _whoosh _and _pop _of magical assault begins to slow, and eventually stops altogether as Hawke picks off the last of the stragglers downstairs. Blood coats Fenris's arm to the shoulder and drips thickly to the floor—I wonder distantly how much of it is mine. He slowly lifts his gaze from the body, meeting mine in a seismic tremor of _Now what? _

Then Merrill recovers, and shouts for Anders as she kneels at Varric's side. My moment—my chance to bridge this yawning gap of _hurt _is borne away by more immediate concerns. Footfalls creak lightly on the staircase, too many for just one person. "Blood and flames, you lot made a mess," the healer sighs wearily, calloused hands already aglow.

I wobble to my feet. Fenris is the one still point in a spinning panorama as my head pulses ruthlessly; I make him my focus as I drunkenly stumble across the floor. In any other moment, I wouldn't hesitate. I would throw myself weeping into his arms and let him cradle my head against the Erin-shaped space underneath his collarbone. But we're _here_. We're _now_. _Now_, we're surrounded by _people_, healing and looting and joking around (_because this is normal_). _Now,_ he's _hurt_—he's hurt like he would _never _be at home. _Now_, I'm paralyzed by the sense that in _this _place, _nothing _I knowreally _applies_ anymore. I'm absolutely _petrified _of doing him worse injury than the ones he already bears. And his markings—can I even _touch _him without hurting him—?

Dawn splashes pale pink and gold over the slate-blue sky like someone knocked over a bucket of paint. Hightown cautiously opens to the new day, shops and stalls warily eyeing our motley parade as we slowly make our way to Hawke's estate, as much for comfort's sake as for its proximity to Anders's clinic. My violin bounces gently against the outside of my knee as I sway with the tempo of my footsteps down the stairs leading from the Estates to the Chantry courtyard. Fenris limps beside me, the space between our shoulders vibrating with a tense, static resistance to gravity like same-side poles of two magnets. "Tell me you are well," he demands at last. "Tell me you did not suffer for my sake."

What do I _say_? What am I _supposed _to say? The past several hours of yo-yoing from the pinnacle of health to near-death and back again are beginning to catch up to me. Or else the gentle roll of the tightly-packed cobblestones has grown more malicious since we last met. A concentrated ache throbs across the back of my head and radiates through my entire skull. A fault line of nausea quivers in the bottom of my stomach, sending tiny shockwaves of warning into my throat. _Oh no you don't—_

I clench my jaw obstinately against the temper tantrum building in every cell and fiber of my being. I can _do _this. I found Fenris, and I didn't die. Mission accomplished. _Don't throw up _should be an easy goal to achieve, after that. "Hadriana's dead," I announce woodenly. "I killed her."

Fenris's head droops, as if with a deep, inexpressible shame, and we lapse again into a silence so loud and terrible the very heavens should tremble with apprehension.

Hawke waves us through her front door, and latches it closed behind us with a homey _click_. A cold sweat of herculean effort trickles down the groove of my spine, as my steps roll heel-to-toe over the tiles in Hawke's foyer. Her voice echoes through the empty space in my head normally reserved for stray thoughts, announcing to someone named _Mother _that she is home and she's brought visitors. The tiny shockwaves become ominous grumblings of rebellion, and I start counting right angles with a desperation normal people only experience when drowning. Or when doing calculus.

A _lady's _gait whispers down the staircase of white stone. Gray-white hair has been tidily gathered into a loose braid, strands pulled loose here and there by worrying fingers. "Marian Elise Hawke, I have had enough!" she bursts out. "Coming and going at all hours of the night, I don't know where you go, whether you'll return bloody or whether you'll return at all—I won't stand for it, I tell you!"

Jewel-toned silk billows behind her as she takes the last few steps at a run and throws her arms around her child (_and what a pleasant surprise it is to discover the interdimensional chapter of Clan Hugger_). I immediately see the resemblance, pressed cheek to cheek as they are. Hawke has the same shape to her eyes, the same gentle curve in her jaw. She endures her mother's embrace with long-suffering patience, letting go only when the older woman pulls away first.

Leandra Hawke gives Hundur a mightily distracted pat on the head, hurriedly swiping her fingertips under her lashes as she turns to me with a wobbly social smile. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure," she greets me, every inch the hostess, even in her dressing gown.

And _that_, it would seem,is the ultimate limit of what I can endure. The eggshell-thin membrane holding everything in its proper place shatters, and the turbulent interior surges against the pull of gravity. I am about to disgrace myself all over Hawke's immaculate tile floor, in front of her _mother_, no less, and there is absolutely _nothing _more I can do to delay it. The most I can do is to hurriedly move away from Fenris and the others so I don't cast up my accounts all over their feet—

Leandra's eyes widen in alarm: she recognizes the signs as any mother would. Quick hands snatch the first receptacle she finds, and she thrusts it under my nose. My diaphragm clenches, and surrenders to the inevitable. My knees hit tile, face buried in a cloying bouquet of white blossoms whose name escapes me at the moment. Slender fingers push my hair out of my face; a soft voice murmurs soothingly to get it all out (_which doesn't take long—I haven't eaten anything since the last time I was violently sick_). Funny how moms sound the same no matter where you go.

"_Do _something, mage," Fenris growls helplessly, leaning heavily on a worktable shoved against the wall at the foot of the stairs.

"I can't _make _her stop," Anders snaps in reply.

"Why darling, whatever is the matter?"

Leandra isn't speaking to me. Pollen and petals tickle my cheeks as I pull my face out of the bouquet of snowy trumpets. Hawke's staring at me, at the vase between my hands, with an intensity that is fearsome and terrible and is going ruin someone's day very quickly, and I finally remember the name for the flower in my hands.

_Lilies. White lilies._

A silent message passes quicker than thought among those of Hawke's followers still on their feet. Without a word of explanation Hawke spins hard on the ball of her foot and stalks out through the foyer. Aveline clanks purposefully on her heels, Merrill and Isabela falling in step behind them.

_Good luck_, I wish them. Perhaps I even say it out loud; Varric snaps a quizzical, shrewd look toward my face, still half-buried in flowers. I let my gaze fall away after a too-brief moment, and his eyes narrow thoughtfully. _Great_.

"Feeling any better, dear?" Leandra asks kindly.

Awkwardly I clasp the vase full of vomit and white-lily doom to my chest. Endless etiquette drills are of absolutely zero help in this situation. "Much better, thank you," is what I end up telling her. At least I'm only lying about the _much _part. "I'm so sorry about your flowers—"

She waves a hand dismissively and whisks the vase out of my grasp. "I'm sure he'll send more," she assures me.

"Wouldn't bet on it," Varric mutters under his breath. "So, my lady," he addresses Leandra with an extravagant bow, "might we trespass upon your hospitality this fine morning?"

She laughs as he bends over the hand she offers him. I have the odd feeling this happens a lot. Or else he's just _that good _at instantly endearing himself to others, whatever the circumstances. "You are most welcome in this household, master dwarf," she declares grandly.

"May I use your cellar?" Anders interjects, practical despite the smile tugging the corners of his mouth toward his cheeks. "I need some supplies from my clinic."

"Of course—I'll leave the door unlocked for you."

Leandra beckons me to follow her upstairs (_I am so tired of stairs_ _seriously whoever invented _stairs _should be dragged into the street and shot_) and into a room I instantly recognize as Hawke's. She stirs the banked embers in the hearth, and soon has bright flames dancing in the alcove of blackened stone. "Make yourselves comfortable," she urges. "I'll send Anders to you as soon as he returns." With one more maternal smile for me—and I'm suddenly so homesick for my own mother I almost puke again—she turns to Varric and asks in mock-courtly fashion, "Will you regale me, Master Tethras, while I prepare something to break our fast?"

Varric gallantly offers his arm, but not without glancing over his shoulder at Fenris and me as if he can hear the story he's about to miss. "It would be my genuine pleasure," he begins with relish. "It all starts with a gap—a tiny gap in the world that can take you to a place on the other side of the Fade itself—"

A weighty silence crashes into the spaces between the sounds of the fire, once the door clicks shut and the voices gradually fade. Fenris stands perfectly still, leaning heavily against the mantle and gazing into the flames. I stare at his back, drowning under a sickening, double-vision wave of déjà vu. There's one conversation I know goes horribly wrong in this room, with another Fenris, with another lover. I sink onto the edge of the giant, four-post bed (_always wanted one of these_). There are too many thoughts in my head; they spill from my eyes and into the wary, uncertain hush.

"I have failed you," Fenris rumbles. He refuses to meet my eyes, staring fixedly at the fire instead. "I knew—I _knew _the dream was too good to last. Yet I did nothing. Nothing to protect you."

"You couldn't have known—"

"But I should have," he cuts me off with an impatient snarl. "I should have expected he would come for me. Sooner or later he always does."

"He's _dead_," I point out exasperatedly. "Or do you expect his ghost to come after you next?

"You were _gone_!" he shouts, whirling. "You were dead—lost to me, and it was _my doing_!" One hand clenches in a bloody fist as his gaze darts this way and that across my face with a harsh, desperate longing stained black with doubt and rage. "Then you were no more than a trick, conjured for a fool, by a fool. Now I find you have pulled me from one dream into another, with nothing but _words_." He chokes, laughing darkly because it's better than _nothing_. "And all this in the space of a single night. Tell me, _somniella_, what am I to believe?"

The empty distance between us stretches like a barren, hungry plain, where sun and shadow make lies from the heated air and you can lose yourself with just one step out of place. The fingertips on my left hand throb dully with my heartbeat. It would be so _easy_, to tell him to believe _me_. I'm not crazy—he _can't _be dreaming if I'm not crazy. He _trusts _me. He'd _believe _me. Except—

"You've only really _asked _me for two things, in the entire time I've known you," I answer quietly, willing my voice not to tremble. "You're wearing one. I gave it to you the night of our first date."

As if it is an unconscious motion, born of forgotten habit and now recalled, Fenris lifts his fingers to the circle of silver knots still gleaming against his bare chest. "And the other?" he whispers raggedly.

"You asked me—you asked me to always give you a _choice_." The words crack in my throat, and I swallow hard against the broken pieces leftover before I continue. "So—believe I'm real, or don't. Your choice."

I thought I'd been brave when I took a fistful of vines in my hand and let my feet leave solid(_ish_) ground. But I was wrong. _This _is bravery, and it is _so much harder_. "But it has to be _yours_," I finish. I fold my arms loosely over my chest, favoring my sore playing hand. I feel more vulnerable, more _naked_, waiting for him to make up his goddamn mind, than I ever have in the bedroom, or in dreams of high school recitals in which I _am _naked. I press my eyes shut against the still air, the flickering light and the waiting of the world. Being brave _sucks—_

"Give me that."

The second hand on my watch isn't moving. I feel outside time itself, as my eyelids crack slowly open. Fenris is still leaning against the mantle. He's trained an obsidian scowl on the orange flames, elven features at their most inscrutable. But one hand is outstretched toward me, lyrium-etched palm open.

Black spikes and blue jeans split across realities, superimposing on one another like film negatives. I blink—_hard_—but he's still here when I open my eyes again. Bloody, bare-chested and bruised, _he's still here._

And if he can be _here_, so can I.

Static jumps through the space between our fingertips, and he flinches under my touch. I instantly draw my hand away—this is _Kirkwall_, and I don't know the _rules _anymore—

Fenris growls a wordless denial as the tentative bridge of fingers starts to collapse. He seizes my wrist, and I gasp in shock as _pain _squeezes through my bones. His expression clenches with an aching mix of remorse and self-disgust; he jerks his hand away as though I'd burned him.

_Oh, don't you dare_. I surrender to instinct, wrong or right. We've weathered this insanity together from minute one; I will be _damned _if I'm going to change that _now_. I fling my arms around his neck, squeezing my eyes shut as the familiar minty-static musk rises above the darker scents left by inglorious hurt. He hisses through his teeth in surprise, and I swear guiltily. This probably actually _really _hurts, come to think of it—

Fenris's grip around my waist tightens as I start to slide away, preventing my well-intentioned escape. He buries his face in the hollow between my neck and shoulder and leaves crimson handprints on the deep-sky-blue cotton of my tank-top. An ineffable truth shudders in the negative space between our heartbeats, as his shoulders tremble and I try to find a place for my hands that's not cut, swollen, or bruised (_and come up empty, so they end up in his hair_). It swells like a lopsided bubble and spills over our surroundings as it bursts.

"_Festis bei umo canavarum,_" he murmurs hoarsely into my hair, as he trails his fingers up and down my arms and my skin tingles with welcome.

"Pot and kettle, babe," I retort with a bone-weary grin. "And yet."

He sighs shakily, lips curving against my forehead. "Yes. And yet."

We're alive. We're together. We can figure out the rest later.


	58. A chaos of butterflies

**AN: **To those of you who wished Rhino a happy birthday (and to all of you, really, even though I said I'd save gushy ANs till the end), THANK YOU!

* * *

><p>We don't stop touching. Even when Anders swaggers possessively into the room—<em>Hawke's bedroom<em>—like he belongs there (_which he very well might, come to think of it_), we don't stop. Even when he taps two fingertips against my sternum in search of lingering damage; even when he asks that I sit on the floor at the foot of the bed so he has room to address the ugly cuts crisscrossing Fenris's back, and the more serious injuries besides, we don't stop.

_Just. Keep. Touching. Me._

Fenris endures Anders's ministrations in stoic, taut silence. My heart seizes anxiously in my chest as little by little, _my _Fenris disappears and is replaced by a wary, guarded mask of carefully fabricated blankness. I stroke the top of his tattooed foot with my sole—_stay with me, babe_—and his gaze flicks to me in surprise as if he'd forgotten I was there. Incredibly, he (_sort of_) relaxes—enough so that Anders can finish wiping the breaks and cuts and bruises from the record of his flesh. He lays his other foot over mine with a minute, wry twitch of his lips that, under the circumstances, I can accept as a smile.

"Finished," Anders announces with weary satisfaction. "You shouldn't try dragon-slaying anytime soon, but—" He bounces a quick glance between our faces, and his fair skin pinks. "I'll just—I'll be downstairs," he coughs awkwardly.

Belatedly I remember my manners, even grossly insufficient for the occasion as they are. He did just heal in minutes what normally takes weeks; I should probably say _something_. "Anders," I call, as his robe flaps quietly behind him. "Thank you."

The mage's gaze flicks to my feet, sandwiched between Fenris's in easy intimacy. "I'll be downstairs," he says again, but he smiles this time.

It just doesn't seem _fair_. Knowing _him_, even for this brief amount of time, makes all the other _knowing _that much worse. A shock of grief and sorrow constricts in my chest as he considerately pulls the door shut behind him, and instantly releases. I won't worry about that, now. I _can't _worry about that, now. I have _other _worries.

"What happened, Erin?" Fenris breaks the concentrated silence, once we're alone.

"Short version?" I try to grin at him, and lean backwards on the heels of my hands. "We rescued you." I shrug, feigning nonchalance. It's not that I don't remember what happened. I should be so lucky. The pictures of the night's events are falling out of order like photos shaken out of an album, together with the thousands of words that go with them. I just don't know where to _begin_. I don't know how to explain all of—all _this_. "Varric's probably telling the long version as we speak, if you're really interested—"

"I want _your _version," he interrupts firmly. "One moment, I'm dragged away while you are left for dead. The next?" He spreads his hands helplessly, as if the gesture can encompass the ugliness of empty space between _then _and _now_. "Talk to me, _dulca_," he begs hoarsely.

If he had said anything—_anything _else, I could have brushed it off with a shrug and as bare-bones a retelling as he'd let me get away with. But—Jesus, I've _missed _him. I've missed him like I'd miss being a mammal, like I'd miss breathing air or walking on two legs. And—and _dammit_ he just _had _to call me _dulca_, didn't he?

I stand and put my back to him, leaning against one of the bedposts. I press my eyes shut as I reluctantly forge the chain of events in my mind. Merrill or even Anders could better explain what actually _happened _to be, I think, but maybe that doesn't matter yet. Maybe it will never matter. "You were _gone_," I sum up my unaccounted-for nightmare hours in the Fade. "You were gone, and I was crazy. Then I got out, and you weren't _gone_, you'd been _taken_, and I'd been _dying_ the wh-whole time because Hadriana was just _p-playing _with me—I _would _have died, if Anders and Varric—if they hadn't—"

My head bows under the weight of enormous, crushing sobs—all the tears I've held back till I got through this. Except there is no more _this _to get through. I've found Fenris. I didn't die. _This _is _over_.

Movement ghosts across my peripheral senses, as Fenris stands. He curls his palm over my nape and draws me into his chest. He tucks my head right where it belongs, where I have needed _so very badly _to be, and with a shudder of surrender, I begin to weep into the safe place just under his collarbone. He pulls me tighter against him; something small and wet drops onto my neck and rolls under the collar of my borrowed shirt. I glance up in surprise: Fenris presses one tearstained cheek into my hair, eyes pressed shut as if against unbearable pain as he rocks me back and forth.

I lift my palm to his cheek and swipe the pad of my thumb over the damp trails. His eyes pop open at my touch; a tremor of remorse rattles through the soft, dark pools. "_Lacrimae tei cor meum dolet_," he whispers. Gingerly he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear, as if he expects me to shatter (_I still might_). "'Your tears break my heart,'" he translates hoarsely when it becomes apparent I really have no idea what he just said. He brushes his lips across my forehead, and I sag against him as silence falls like a cloud of feathers.

"How did you find me?" he asks hesitantly, as though wary of disturbing the hard-won peace of the moment. "Danarius was certain it would be impossible."

A whip-crack of cold scorn flashes through me at the sound of the dead man's name. "And now he's dead," I clip out frostily. "As it turns out, I'm smarter than that fucking _sadist _and his vicious pupil _combined_. And that's on a _bad _day. I asked the right questions, that's all." I rest the back of my head against the bedpost, unabashedly _staring _at him and for once, he doesn't seem to mind. "'Impossible' doesn't mean a damn thing when it comes to you and me," I murmur with fierce conviction. "_Nothing _could have kept me from you."

_Nothing could. Nothing did. Nothing ever will_.

I loop my arms around his neck and drag his lips down to mine. He groans deep in his throat, and swirls his tongue through the inside of my mouth. Denim whispers with friction as his hips trap me against the bedpost; he buries his hands in my hair and drinks my kiss from my lips like a man dying of thirst. Needy hands roughly lift the deep-sky-blue cotton over my head and find skin; nimble fingers flick the clasp of my bra open and leave me bared to the waist.

Fenris breaks the kiss (_against my protests_), bending his head to press his lips to the site where he'd used his markings to push through me. My head falls backwards as his mouth strays left, and then right, over phantom injuries and inches of skin that feel like _miles_, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip to keep from crying out. My knees buckle, and he effortlessly catches me in strong, waiting arms. Thick rugs and firelight cushion our slow, exquisite fall to the floor. I release a sound like a whimper and a sigh, as Fenris trails kisses over my breasts and neck, down my stomach, as he coaxes my jeans over my hips and down my legs.

Then it's just skin against skin, and there's nothing to hold onto. Nothing but him.

I arch hungrily against him, clinging to his shoulders as his body rocks into mine. Heat and reckless need burn white in the air between us, as if by this alone we can scorch away the hours of hurt. He swallows my escalating cries with kiss after kiss; I press my palms flat against the small of his back, urging him _closer_—oh _God_—

Fenris crushes his lips to mine and moans quietly into my mouth, effectively stifling what would have otherwise been a scream. He gently lifts me into his lap, stroking trails through the sweat on my skin and pressing his forehead to mine. I trace his markings with my fingertips as my eyes drift slowly shut, almost dozing as we lean into one another. And no matter that this is _Kirkwall_, that this is Hawke's estate—Hawke's _bedroom_, Hawke's would-be lover except he ended up with _me _instead—I feel like I'm _home_.

"Elf! Smiley! Breakfast!"

My eyes snap back open in alarm bordering on panic, as Fenris bites off a clipped string of Tevinter vulgarities. This—this _is _Kirkwall, oh _shit_—

"It never ends," Fenris complains with bitter, weary resignation.

"Yeah, well," I have to laugh as I scramble off of him. "That's Kirkwall for you." I hop into my jeans, tripping on the cuffs in my haste; I shrug back into the filthy tank top and rake my fingers through my hair, vainly attempting to bring it to some semblance of order. It will have to do.

"You two coming or what?" Varric calls from the foot of the stairs.

I don't laugh, because I'm twenty-five, not twelve. But I can't quite look Fenris in the eye, either, until I've regained control of my expression. If the reddened tips of his ears are any indication, he's facing a similar battle. He slants a wary, sideways glance at me through his forelock, and I grin sheepishly at him. And because it _is _Kirkwall, because Christ alone knows what'll happen next, and because I just _feel _like it, I slide my arms around his waist and kiss him again. "I missed you," I whisper once we come up for air.

"And I you, _flamma mea_." Fenris swiftly claims my hand, giving my fingers a tight squeeze as he chivalrously opens the door for me.

I settle for being led, and try not to gawk as Fenris takes me beyond the beaten path, past the areas I feel I know as intimately as I know my own home, and into the murky, uncharted territory of actual occupancy. But in any place, in any home where people actually _live_, the kitchen will inevitably be the nucleus of any and all activity. Bacon, warm bread and chatter lay gentle siege to my senses as we draw closer, and I breathe it in with a wide smile.

Leandra wanders in methodical circles around a large island, Hundur trailing hopefully behind her. Every now and then she reaches her hand up and twists off a sprig of herb from the faded green clusters suspended for drying above the island's wooden surface, and adds it to a flat pan that sizzles comfortingly. Midmorning sunlight pours into the room through an open door that leads into a stone-walled garden. Anders stands at the counter, sleeves pushed to his elbows as he pumps water into a sink—tub, really, at least by my galley-kitchen standards—and rinses a colorful medley of vegetables. Varric's found a seat out of the way at a small, round table pushed into an irregularly-shaped corner. One hand curls around a mug; the other scratches a quill across a blank page in a leather-bound sheaf of notes.

He scatters powder-fine sand over the fresh ink as he takes note of our arrival, and props his chin on the heel of his hand. "The girl with the fiddle herself," he greets me easily. He gestures invitingly at the chair opposite his with the quill. I sit, pasting on a nervous, social smile. Minty-static warmth shifts through the air around me, as Fenris adopts a vigilant stance behind my chair. Varric's expression remains beatific, except for the honey-gold smirk that crinkles the corners of his eyes.

One day I will learn Fenris's trick of bland expressionlessness, but not today: the dwarf's smirk transforms into a caught-you-red-handed grin, as Fenris's hand settles naturally on my silk-clad shoulder, and I fight the urge to fidget. It is rather disconcerting to be the focus of a stranger's unwavering attention. I have newfound sympathy for the countless specimens I have subjected to my own similar scrutiny. Fenris bristles protectively behind me; I can picture the accompanying scowl with little difficulty, if Varric's fading smile is anything to go by.

It's Scooter who rescues us all from an increasingly uncomfortable moment. She slinks around the corner of the island, and instantly abandons her fruitless attempts to extort table scraps when she realizes Fenris and I are in the room. With ecstasy and enthusiasm unprecedented even by dog standards, she charges toward me and takes a flying leap into my lap. Her entire body quivers with joy, as she whimpers happily and tries to lick both our faces at once.

Anders glances at us over his shoulder and shakes his head in disgust. "And you people wonder why I'm a cat person," he complains to no one in particular.

Varric rolls his eyes for my benefit, and pretends not to be _very _interested in the way Fenris clicks two fingers at my very-badly-behaved dog and she immediately flops off my lap to sit on my feet. Anders sets down a platter of fresh fruit and vegetables with a _thunk_. Leandra turns and lays a pan on the table that sends up whorls of bacon-scented steam. I glance uncertainly at the faces around me, waiting for a clue as to my role in what is evidently a routine occurrence. Then my hostess smiles graciously, and as if she'd waved a starting flag, Anders and Varric dig in with happy purpose.

_Well, when in Rome._

Conversation breaks like waves against the soft ceramic _clink _as dishes are passed around, as we scoop generous helpings of the simple fare onto our plates. Varric and I serve as a buffer between Fenris's and Anders's icily courteous disdain that manifests as completely ignoring each other. He fires off _questions_ in rapid succession, which I answer to the best of my ability.

"You're shitting me—_cold beer?_"

"Yup. Cold beer."

"_Weird_—"

I blush hotly under the weight of Fenris's mercurial gaze, as Varric relates the parts of the tale I—um—didn't quite get around to. It darkens stormily at the particulars of Hadriana's demise; it softens with sorrow when he learns I—_me, Erin_—was the one to deliver it. His eyebrows twitch in amazement when he hears Varric's version of the rooftop jaunt by moonlight (_which, apart from a few colorful turns of phrase, is startlingly close to my own "I climbed up to the roof" version_). Our rules have changed: this is Kirkwall, and he is wary of betraying too much of himself. But he clasps my fingers in his under the table, stroking his thumb over the backs of my knuckles.

I get the message; we weren't parted for so long that I've forgotten how to talk to him without actually having to use words. I squeeze firmly in response to his gentle touch, and snatch a slice of apple from his plate with my free hand, grinning like it's _no big deal _I faced down gravity and broken bones for his sake. And weirdly, now that we're safe (_well, as safe as Kirkwall can get_), it really _isn't_.

_Huh_.

Anders and Leandra shove away from the table at the sound of lightweight boots rustling through the garden. The tops of Hawke's toes drag across the ground as she wearily shuffles one foot in front of the other. "I'm _fine_, Mother," she protests feebly, as Anders tugs one arm around his shoulders and half-carries her into the kitchen. "I just need to sleep—f'r a year 'r so—"

Leandra can't see the haunted look that clouds the piercing blue gaze, but I can—a look that quickly sharpens when Hawke's eyes find me. She pulls free of Anders, and totters unsteadily toward me. I leap to my feet, ready to catch her before she topples face-first into the bacon, but she only throws her arms around me and squeezes. _Hard_. "Uh—"

"_Thank you_," she whispers fiercely. "You have no idea—"

_Oh. THAT. _"Um—don't mention it," I manage awkwardly, and pat her back between her shoulder blades. "Really."

"Maker's breath, Marian," Leandra exclaims exasperatedly. "What is going on?"

"You need some rest," Anders urges Hawke as she dangles limply in my arms—this is getting extremely uncomfortable—

"I can explain, Leandra," Varric offers somberly. "Blondie?"

Anders lifts Hawke off of me and gently scoops her off her feet, carrying her out of sight. I take a deep, fortifying breath against the chaotic _strange _erupting in bursts all over the room. Fenris spins me around by my shoulders, anxiously searching my face. "Are you hurt?" he rumbles urgently.

"Why on earth would _I _be hurt?" I frown at him. "All she did was hug me—which, what was that about, exactly?" I ask Varric, for Leandra's benefit. Better an air of obliging confusion, than to act like I know what I _know_. Jesus Christ this is so _complicated_. And _exhausting_.

And I have this sinking feeling I'm not fooling anyone except Leandra: Fenris's brows form a skeptical V over the bridge of his nose, and Varric slants a narrow, sideways look at me over the rim of his mug. The story as _he _tells it makes it sound as though the man who sent the flowers _probably_ wasn't the same man who had been abducting women and using their body parts for his wife-golem, but Hawke wasn't about to take any chances, and just stumbled upon the connection by accident. It's a masterful editing job, really, considering he wasn't even there (_but I was, every time except THIS time and isn't THAT just weird as shit_).

"Cheer up, Smiley," Varric finishes in an undertone. "It's not every day you help solve a problem with vomit and a bouquet."

"Well, when you put it _that _way," I scoff lightly. "So what now?"

"Now?" Varric grins conspiratorially, and tips a generous helping from his flask into his mug. "Now, we drink to friends and heroes, old and new." He pushes the mug toward me, handle first in invitation.

My first taste of rat-flavored whiskey leaves something to be desired. But I'm touched, nonetheless.

Fenris comes looking for me, hours later. Scooter greets him with a lazy _thump-thump _of her tail against the library floor. It's the one room in the house I could be reasonably certain he'd check. It's grown quiet in the mansion, as morning has climbed into afternoon. Anders has reluctantly left to see if Merrill, or Isabela, or Aveline are in need of more serious healing than bed rest. Varric went with him, descending the long stairs into Lowtown to end at the Hanged Man. Those of us still here (_which basically means Fenris and me, and the people who actually LIVE here_) are tiptoeing about on the first floor so we don't disturb Hawke, sleeping off the night's trials upstairs. Given the option, I have no doubt she could sleep for the year she asked for.

I offer him a small, tentative smile in invitation; his eyes smile in return, and he bends at the waist to rest his forehead against mine. "I have lain awake nights for that smile," he confides huskily.

My hair flops into my face as I duck my head away from his tender scrutiny, blushing furiously. You'd think I'd be used to this by now. "Is it weird, being back?" I ask, once I feel in control of the silly grin splitting my face in half.

He chuckles wryly. "Weird and then some," he answers. I scoot over to make room for him on the narrow library staircase, and he folds easily into position beside me. "Nothing has changed. And yet everything is different." His hand finds mine almost unconsciously; he absentmindedly strokes my wrist with his thumb as a frown draws the dark brows into a pensive dip over the bridge of his nose. "It—it doesn't feel as I remember. As I feared it would."

"That's _good_, right?"

"I'm not certain," he admits. "It is simply—weird." He shakes himself out of his reverie, quirking a brow at me in question. "What of you, _dulca_? I can't imagine how strange this must be for you."

I laugh softly. "_Strange_," I echo. A woman should have _died_—was _supposed _to die, except I puked into her flowers. I've spent all morning kicking it around Hawke's mansion, wearing a filthy tank top that I will probably end up burning when (_if?_) I get home and _nevermind _that it's Fenris's favorite color. _Strange _does not begin to cover it. Hazy silence deepens into a fog, as my thoughts move farther and farther away from _here _and _now_, from Fenris's hand in mine, and more towards _oh shit I may have royally fucked this up_.

Fenris sucks in a sharp breath that seems to hitch uncomfortably halfway into his chest. "Do you wish to stay?" he asks abruptly.

"_What?!_" Of all the things in _two _worlds he could have asked me, it is _the _last thing I expected to hear. "You _hated _this city," I struggle to understand. "And now you're thinking about staying? _Why_?"

Fenris makes no reply for a long, tense moment. The fire in the library hearth makes unreal shadow puppets from furniture and trophy, from book and statue. I cast my gaze wildly over his face like a net, hoping I will be lucky enough to catch even the slightest glimpse of his thoughts in the marble-bland expression.

"You once asked if Kirkwall was ever my home," he says at last. "And it wasn't. I believed it never could be. Until now." He finally meets my eyes with a snowstorm-on-pines _stare_ that has me curling my toes against the edge of the step like a monkey gripping a limb. "Until _you_. I will not say it feels like home _now_," he adds cautiously. "But—it could." He folds both my hands between his; the image sears itself onto my mind's eye, and I know it's a _moment_. "So. Will you stay?"

It would take a better liar than me to pretend the thought has not occurred to me. _Stay. _I could get used to the strangeness, given time. I could get used to the brilliant and horrible realities of this place, given time. I could get used to the bitter taste in my mouth, the almost constant ringing in my ears and _knowing_ , the same way I know _Once upon a time _and _Happily ever after_, this entire city is on a doomsday clock to _inevitable_ disaster because _real people _have _real problems _and I know _exactly _how it all _ends_—

"I can't." The words are out of my mouth, irrevocable as a double-tap, before I even consciously realize I've made a decision. Fear and _loss _peal through me like Judgment Day, and I begin to tremble, quite unintentionally. _This is it— _"Will you?"

He blinks once, slowly. "I believe the appropriate phrase is 'hell, no'," he deadpans, imitative (_atrocious_) drawl turning the words into _hail, naw_. "_Vishante, mella_, but you are daft sometimes," he abruptly bursts into laughter, right before his mouth seizes mine in a kiss that says _I hoped you'd say that_. Thumbs up for nonverbal communication.

"Home is with _you_," he whispers against my lips with a molten, tender smirk. "And I love you for it."

I do not have enough room in my body—in _me_, to hold in the rush of rush of fire and mighty phoenix wings that beats against my insides. I can only press myself more closely against him, and know that he feels it. That—that he feels the _same _oh holy crap Fenris _loves _me—

"I love you," I grin helplessly in reply. Kisses shimmer like bubbles and break in quick bursts of color and feeling and _music_. He pulls away panting, eyes laughing giddily into mine. I don't think either of us wants to say it first. So we skip it entirely.

"I need something from the mansion," Fenris states breathlessly, stroking my hair out of my face with his fingers.

I stand and whistle for Scooter, who leaps to her feet with a doggy, floppy-eared shake. "Race ya!" I giggle at him.

_Let's go home_. Tomato, to-mah-to.

I snatch my violin and its two bows from the worktable in the adjacent room (_living room? Parlor? Fireplace-and-worktable room?_) where I left them, and spring into the sunny Hightown afternoon on winged feet. Fenris quickly overtakes me—mostly because I have no idea where I'm going. Scooter lopes happily between us, as we dodge idle passers-by and city guards on patrol. The mansion by day isn't half so bad as it was last night. Don't get me wrong—it's still a fall-apart, health-hazard _wreck_ and now that I'm really _seeing _it, what I wouldn't give for a modern demolition crew. But under cloudless sky and sunlight, absent the menace and pitiless darkness, it's just a tired old house.

A tired old house, with a single bottle of Aggregio Pavali left in the cellar.

By the time we reach the Wounded Coast, I'm running on a champagne high of pure adrenaline, fizzing busily somewhere between my heart and my diaphragm. Scooter's paws scatter the loose sand behind her as she erratically charges forward in a mad quest to sniff absolutely EVERYTHING. White-gold sunlight glitters across the ocean's surface and makes the whole world _shine_.

I could be wrong (_I seriously doubt it_), but I think I'm deliriously, incandescently _happy_.

Fenris's markings _buzz _in my palm like battery acid. Scooter dips her nose into the sand and drags one front paw over her ears, yowling in rare displeasure. And without actually making a sound, the pressure in my ears begins to _sing _on a frequency I can feel in my bones. I press my hand flat against the side of my head, rubbing futilely to ease the ache. "I think we're here," I beam at him. I don't mind it, really. We're going home. _Together_. I think I can put up with it a little longer.

Fenris's answering smile is genuine, but nevertheless uneasy. He releases my hand and stalks warily through the spaces between rocks, as if with one step in any direction he expects to land in my—_our_ living room (_not a half-bad idea, considering how he arrived in the first place_). "What now?"

I trace lines in the sand with my big toe, frowning as I adjust my grip on my violin for playing. Everything I know (_or think I know_) about how this—Thing even _works _has up to this point been linked to _him_: first the needto _find_ him, and then _actually_ findinghim. My gut turns itself inside out without warning, as something inside retreats into a gaping pit of crippling self-consciousness. I have absolutely _no idea _how to get us home—oh God there's no way in _hell _I can—

_Calm down. This is not the time for stage fright._

I take a deep breath, as I used to before I'd force myself to step into the glaring white spotlight on the cafeteria stage in high school. It's just _Fenris_—Fenris and some sand and rocks. And this is _way too important _for me to be _shy_.

It's probably my imagination, but despite not having touched a rosin block since even before I _left_, the first note I coax from the dragon bow is a pitch-perfect tone of such melancholy sweetness I almost make myself cry. There is only one song I can think of for a moment such as this. It's not _the _song—not the frenetic, harsh beauty I created in my _self _to come here. But it is the only one that will fit, and I smile into the chin rest as the words claim their familiar shapes in my head.

_Somewhere, over the rainbow_—

"Going somewhere, my bluebirds?"

Judy Garland jumps an octave or ten into Mussorgsky (_though I prefer to call him Maestro of my Childhood Nightmares, and if you've heard "Night on Bald Mountain" you know EXACTLY what I mean_), and my fingers tighten into rigid claws over the strings.

Fenris whirls, markings ablaze with hot, instinctive fury. "_You,_" he snarls, lip curling into a lupine sneer.

Burgundy leather creaks in time with her swaying gait, as Flemeth sweeps aside the tattered curtain that separates _here _and _there_ and steps onto the sand. "Ah, and here we are," she sighs with deep satisfaction.

I let the violin drop away from my shoulder; the dragon bow dangles from my fingers. Scooter shrinks against my calf, tail tucked between her legs and trembling. My pulse ceases to race, and the acute desire to run screaming in the opposite direction gradually subsides. No sedate pantsuit this time for the Witch of the Wilds. White hair sweeps into horns, held in place by the spiked headpiece. Briny gusts of wind off the ocean stir through the sleek, black feathers on either shoulder; from the corner of my eye she appears to have two live ravens perched there. I would know _this _Flemeth anywhere.

And the funny thing is I'm not all _that _surprised to see her.

The unblinking, yellow-green fixes upon me with dispassionate interest, as the witch's lips curve into a pensive smile. "Fate and chance sit at the same table," she muses. An uncanny chill shivers down my spine as that omniscient, dragon's-eyes stare flicks briefly toward Fenris. "A chance may change a fate," she continues, "and now you choose to take a chance." Her dagger-sharp attention narrows on me, on the instrument in my hand and the thoughts screaming in my head so loudly I wouldn't be at all shocked if she could hear them. "Are you a merely drop in the bucket, I wonder? Or are you perhaps the butterfly?"

_Cryptic old bat_. I bet she practices. I fold my arms defiantly over my chest. My mother would be appalled if she could see me. "I'm a grad student," I quip blandly.

"And quite the musician," she retorts with a knowing smirk. "It suits you."

"Speak plainly," Fenris snaps impatiently. I can sympathize; I don't like riddles much either, and _I _kind of _get _it.

"No." The leather skirt of her armor drifts lazily in the ocean breeze, as she slowly wanders in a circle around what I am fairly certain is our Spot. "How very _strange_," she chuckles, mostly to herself. "No matter. Come," she orders us brusquely. "The breach must be closed." She fixes me with another patented, ancient _stare_, as I try not to trip over Scooter (_sandwiched between my legs, the fraidy-cat_). "You have done me a service greater than even _you _know," she nods at me. "You will find we are settled, I think." Faint amusement deepens the crows' feet at the corners of her eyes, and she adds, "Bad fairies pay their debts promptly." She throws her head back and laughs at my wary, _clueless _expression and waves me past her into the—_whatever. _Everyone seems to have a different name for it. "You know what to do."

_I guess. _"I'll tell Gran you said 'bye," I promise facetiously.

I need both my hands (_or you can bet the farm I'd be hanging on to Fenris for dear life_). But Fenris hooks the fingers of one hand through my belt; the other takes firm hold of Scooter's collar, and the rush of _home _that follows is so fierce I don't know what to do with it, except _play _it. I _play _coffee in the kitchen. I _play _my favorite seat on the countertop. I _play _throwing the Frisbee for Scooter. I _play _playing and sketches and the river and staying up all night and Disney movies and sun-bright kisses and a slow-burn sweetness that is beautiful and mine and _us_.

I play _home_.

I think I'm ready for the viscous grittiness, the upheaval of my senses and the choke of the air turning liquid in my lungs, until it _hits _me. _Home _falters on my strings as I gasp into nothing and draw air in through my skin—oh Jesus—

Faded navy chenille throws its arms around us like an upside-down parachute, as we tumble out of _nothing_. Bone and skin slap jarringly against each other, as my forehead bangs against Fenris's and his elbow lands in my stomach. Scooter yelps indignantly as she is crushed between us, and wiggles free almost immediately. Claws scrape against hardwood laminate as she gives herself a vigorous shake, wet nose twitching with lazy inquisitiveness, as Fenris and I struggle to untangle ourselves.

Oh, my _God_. We _did _it. And not only that—

I blink at my surroundings in abject consternation. There is a smell like bleach and brimstone in the still air, as I take a deep breath and pace through my spotless living room. At least a little of what Flemeth said begins to make sense; blood and bodies and crimson splashes on drywall have not only been cleaned, they've been _erased_, as if they'd never _been_. She's even fed the cats (_though you'd never know it, the way they're whining_). I have to take back at least _one _mean thing I ever thought about her (_I decide on the "bat" part of the "cryptic old bat"_). Fenris slowly gathers me into his arms; my violin thuds discordantly to the floor as I begin to weep once more into the pad of his shoulder. My favorite spot. Where I _belong_. Where I'm _home_.

Everything is as it _should be_.

Almost.

The bean grinder chainsaws through the static hush. The deep, bitter savor cuts through the harsh, sterile scents of _dragon_ and _clean_, drifting through the small space like incense through a temple. I perch on my favorite spot on the countertop, claiming it with my body as I have in song. Fenris nudges my knees apart with his hips, stroking my back with lyrium-etched palms that _tingle_ as I pillow my temple on his shoulder. What do you _say_, in the midst of a _moment _like _this_? What _can _you say?

I brave the silence first. "So, my lease is up next month—"

Fenris cuts short the half-formed, reckless thought with a kiss that _scorches _through petty hesitations like _much too soon _and _we hardly know each other. _"Yes," he whispers hotly. "If there is a future to be had—whatever the question, _yes_."

I grin into his mouth as he urges my legs around his hips. _I hoped he'd say that_.


	59. Epilogue(s)

_Varric Tethras sat in his suite at the Hanged Man, pensively twirling a brightly-dyed quill between his thumb and forefinger. He frowned at the single page of notes he'd managed to collect, like he had been for the past two days. Footsteps thumped on the stairs leading from the common room, and he glanced up, honestly glad of the interruption. "And they seriously just—left?" he asked for what felt like the hundredth time._

_ Hawke grinned sympathetically as she dropped a fresh pint of ale next to his elbow; she plopped into the empty chair beside his and tugged his notes toward her. "'A grinning she-wolf, with blood in her teeth,'" she read aloud. "You're branching out—should I be jealous?"_

_ He smiled fleetingly, burying his frustration in his mug. It was the one phrase in the whole half-formed tale he felt was halfway decent. The rest was a sloppy mess of hasty observations and words scratched out in fits of pique. In truth, he was this close to giving up entirely. This story just did not want to be told. And the principal characters had just up and walked out of it. No note, no explanation—they'd just walked out on their own story. A story he'd missed. _

_ That—rankled._

_ Varric took another long pull from his mug, trying to shake off his sour mood like he would droplets of water. "Ah, Hawke," he joked with a smirk. "You know you're my only hero."_

_ More footsteps, more company paraded into his suite as Isabela swaggered up the staircase, Merrill and Anders on her heels. Hawke grinned at her lover—there's a disaster in the works, Varric thought with a rare stab of worry. Pints and bottles were passed around; cards were dealt and antes were upped. It was normal, and he found himself more grateful for it than usual. _

_ He let himself lose early. He wanted to watch, to think for a while. Besides, it was worth every copper to see Daisy's face light up with shocked delight when she won. Hawke and Blondie swapped cards and sticky-eyed stares of adoration that made Rivaini gag theatrically behind her fan of cards. This tale, he could spin drunk on his worst day chewing on one of Bianca's bolts. Very gradually, Varric relaxed, as the familiar patterns of dysfunction swirled around the table like a breeze, always with Hawke at its center. This tale was his._

_ Hours later, he'd blame it on the strangeness of the whole thing that simply would not leave him alone, even though he'd told himself to let it go. Weeks later, he'd blame it on the buoyant reassurance of cheer and booze and the crowd that surrounded his favorite table in the common room, demanding a story of Hawke's exploits. And years later, when questioned none too gently, he'd simply shrug. He scribbled it in the margins of Hawke's journal. It was the shortest—and most truthful—story he'd never tell, because really, who wanted the truth nowadays?_

Hey diddle diddle,  
>The Girl with the Fiddle<br>Is a tale that cannot be told.  
>She saved the white wolf,<br>And he followed her home  
>Back through the hole in the world.<p>

_ Not his best work, Varric thought critically. But everyone had his off days._

* * *

><p>Summer comes to Texas in a slow, sticky wave of <em>hot<em>—the kind that makes moving in the middle of June _miserable_. Or it _should_. I'm too busy twirling in giddy circles in my—_our _new living room. I'm too busy flipping light switches and spinning on faucets. I'm too busy arranging furniture with Emmett, and putting away dishes with Helena and Mom (_I'm too busy making sure cats and dog don't escape every time the door opens_). I'm too busy grabbing Fenris for a quick kiss every chance I get, amidst muffled gasps and at least one _I __**told**__ y'all _from Helena.

I'm too busy being _happy _to be _miserable_.

I've had to give up gaming—almost completely. It's just easier to _not play _than it is to _wonder_, to deal with the crippling guilt I inevitably experience if I attempt anything more complex than Tetris. I'm not gonna complain, though. It's a small sacrifice, when I hold it up against everything _else_.

Home is four white walls and a carpet floor the color of milk chocolate, on the second story of a sprawling complex close to the shop—sorry, the _gallery_. Home is a galley kitchen, a little bit bigger than the last one (_home is a GIGANTIC walk-in closet_). Home is a back porch overlooking the river, where lush grass and trees create a paradise of green sunshine. Home is pressed between the white tile in the bathroom and a warm, lean body I love more than _life_ while cool water sluices off sweat and aches and we tumble into the freshly-made bed, laughing ourselves to sleep.

_Home _is with _Fenris_.

It isn't every girl who gets fireworks on her birthday—I guess that makes me luckier than most. Summer temperatures soar to heights that beggar belief (_even Fenris complains_), as June slides seamlessly into July. Gran's yard has wilted green-brown in the Texas summer sunlight, scattered here and there with a stubborn flash of wildflower color. The barn behind the house glares red against the cloudless blue sky; fire, smoke and meat combine in that wayonly barbecue can. Glass and ice rattle into deep coolers, as the summer feast is laid out buffet-style to a chorus of crickets that makes me itch to join in with my violin.

"Well, you were right," I murmur for my sister's ears alone as we spoon potato salad onto paper plates. "It was pretty complicated."

She laughs softly in my ear and passes me a Shiner, Campbell-blue eyes shining brightly beneath her perfectly-applied mascara. "Complicated looks good on you," she replies with a grin.

"Feels good," I confess with a slow smile that still occasionally feels alien with all the _happy _it manages to contain.

Citronella smoke drifts in the evening breeze. Shadows blend and stars peek shyly from behind the indigo twilight shroud of sky. I feel the weight of eyes on me, warm and palpable as a caress in the summer sun, and I turn. Fenris leans against the barn doorway, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket while the other lifts a single bottle of wine in silent invitation. The hem of my sundress brushes softly against my knees as I slip across the stiff grass, prickly through my flip-flops. He presses one hand against the small of my back, making the pale blue cotton crinkle, and gently coaxes me up the ladder into the hayloft.

The last bottle of Aggregio Pavali (_the ONLY bottle of Aggregio Pavali_) is as foreign and wonderful as I had dared expect. It's sweet as a kiss on my tongue, warm as a touch, and deep as a whisper in the dark. And underneath the sweet, deep warmth is a hidden strangeness unlike anything I have ever known, or will ever know, as I straddle Fenris's thighs and we pass the bottle back and forth. As he lazily traces patterns and shapes into my skin with one lyrium-etched fingertip. As I smile into hollow between his neck and shoulder. As the empty bottle rolls away with a muffled _clink_ and we slowly dissolve into each other atop the thick wool blanket—

It isn't every girl who gets fireworks on her birthday.

Funny how life works.

_Fin_

* * *

><p><strong>Acknowledgments<strong>

I do not know how to express the depth of gratitude in my heart for each and every single one of you. You have made this story what it is, start to finish. Thank you, for letting your curiosity get the better of you. Thank you, for your words of support, of encouragement. Thank you, for giving my story and me a home, a place in this truly amazing community. Thank you. Thank you.

Thank you.


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